The Spring of the Year

by Dallas Lore Sharp

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Hurry out while the last drops of your first May thunder-shower are still falling and listen to the robins singing from the tops of the trees. Their liquid songs are as fresh as the shower, as if the raindrops in falling were running down from the trees in song—as indeed they are in the overflowing trout-brook. Go out and listen, and write a better poem than this one that I wrote the other afternoon when listening to the birds in our first spring shower:—

The warm rain drops aslant the sun

And in the rain the robins sing;

Across the creek in twos and troops,

The hawking swifts and swallows wing.

The air is sweet with apple bloom,

And sweet the laid dust down the lane,

The meadow’s marge of calamus,

And sweet the robins in the rain.