Gray skies and the foggy rain Dripping from sullen eaves; Over and over again Dull drop of the trickling leaves;
And the woodward-winding lane, And the hill with its shocks of sheaves One scarce perceives. Shall I go in such wet weather
By the lane or over the hill?— Where the blossoming milkweed's feather The drops like diamonds fill; Where, draggled and drenched together,
The ox-eyes rank the rill, To the old corn-mill. The creek by now is swollen, And its foaming cascades sound;
And the lilies, smeared with pollen, In the dam look dull and drowned. ‘ Tis a path I oft have stolen To the bridge that rambles round
With willows bound. Through a valley wild with berry, Packed thick with the iron-weeds, And elder,— washed and very
Fragrant,— the fenced path leads; Past oak and wilding cherry To a place of flags and reeds, That the water bredes.
The sun through the sad sky bleaches — Is that a thrush that calls? That bird who so beseeches? And see! on the balsam's balls,
And leaves of the water-beeches — One blister of wart-like galls — No raindrop falls. My shawl instead of a bonnet!...
Though the woods be soaking yet, Through the wet to the rock I'll run it,— How sweet to meet i’ the wet! Our rock with the vine upon it,—
Each flower a fiery jet — Where oft we've met!
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