The skies are gray, where far and wide,
Beyond the water-willows,
The marshes spread their emerald tide
Of blossom-crested billows.
And on the vague horizon’ s rim,
In vaporous purple masses,
The distant woods show soft and dim
Across the lush, green grasses.
An east wind stirs the ivory balls
Upon the button-bushes;
And hark! a hidden rain-bird calls
From out the blowing rushes.
Within the water, yonder spray
Of rosy mallow flowers
Turns faint and pale, till not more gray
The cloudy heaven lowers.
And all the birches’ tender green
An ashen hue is growing;
While mottled with a silver sheen
The ruffled waves are flowing.
Then softly through the forest leaves,
That turn, and toss, and quiver,
The rain, with murmurous cadence, weaves
A roundel in the river.
It dots the waves with dancing pearls,
It gleams, and streams, and twinkles;
It sweeps and sinks in silvery swirls,
And rings, and sings, and tinkles.
The clustering sedges dip and sway,
Till, after fitful failing,
The sun bursts gaily through the gray,
And craggy clouds are sailing
Where, southward, in a brilliant sky,
As light as any feather,
The little moon curves white and high,
In token of fair weather.