But thou!—O, where art thou, sweet early Rain,
That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?
The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note
From off the ridge-cap, but can find no spot
Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence
Explores the pasture with his piercing eye,
And visits oft the bushes by the stream,
But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tufts
Are there to hide a house....
A-missing thee