28.10.2007, 10:56
Arthur Henry Hallam
1811 - 1833
THE garden trees are busy with the shower
That fell ere sunset : now methinks they talk.
Lowly and sweetly as befits the hour,
One to another down the grassy walk.
Hark the laburnum from his opening flower
This cherry-creeper greets in whisper light,
While the grim fir, rejoicing in the night,
Hoarse murmurs to the murmuring sycamore.
What shall I deem their converse ? Would they hail
The wild grey light that fronts yon massive cloud,
Or the half-bow, rising like pillared fire ?
Or are they sighing faintly for desire
That with May dawn their leaves may be overflowed,
And dews about their feet may never fail ?
1811 - 1833
THE garden trees are busy with the shower
That fell ere sunset : now methinks they talk.
Lowly and sweetly as befits the hour,
One to another down the grassy walk.
Hark the laburnum from his opening flower
This cherry-creeper greets in whisper light,
While the grim fir, rejoicing in the night,
Hoarse murmurs to the murmuring sycamore.
What shall I deem their converse ? Would they hail
The wild grey light that fronts yon massive cloud,
Or the half-bow, rising like pillared fire ?
Or are they sighing faintly for desire
That with May dawn their leaves may be overflowed,
And dews about their feet may never fail ?