It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time
To thy warbling notes. Now it louder falls,
Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills;
And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps
With a crash of many sounds; the thrush is still,
There are sweet scents around us; the flow’ret hides,
On that green bank, beneath the leaves;
The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds,
And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses.
And now the shower slopes to the warm west,