Part 2 — LX

Before the stout harvesters falleth the grain, As when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain, And loiters the boy in the briery lane; But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain, Like a long line of spears brightly burnish'd and tall. Adown the white highway like cavalry fleet, It dashes the dust with its numberless feet. Like a murmurless school, in their leafy retreat, The wild birds sit listening the drops round them beat; And the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall. The swallows alone take the storm on their wing, And, taunting the tree-sheltered labourers, sing, Like pebbles the rain breaks the face of the spring, While a bubble darts up from each widening ring; And the boy in dismay hears the loud shower fall. But soon are the harvesters tossing their sheaves; The robin darts out from his bower of leaves; The wren peereth forth from the moss-covered eaves; And the rain-spatter'd urchin now gladly perceives That the beautiful bow bendeth over them all.