Of springtime, when the glinting drops seem gone
Into the first notes of the hidden thrush;
The solemn, dreary beat
Of winter rain and sleet;
The mad, glad, passionate calling of the showers
To the unblossomed hours;
The driving, restless midnight sweep of rain;
The fitful sobbing, and the smile again,
Of spring's childhood; the fierce unpitying pour
Of low-hung leaden clouds; the evermore