And hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen,
Whose tuneful voice, turned fragrance in his breath,
Kissed by sad zephyr, guilty of his death.
Hood.
The sun has long been set,
The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and the trees;
There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,
And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoo's sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky,
Who would "go parading,"
In London "and masquerading,"
On such a night in June,
With the beautiful soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses?
On such a night as this is!
Wordsworth.
When the wind's in the south
The rain's in its mouth.