06.10.2014, 15:13
Black grows the southern sky, betokening rain,
And humming hive-bees homeward hurry by:
They feel the change; so let us shun the grain,
And take the broad road while our feet are dry.
Aye there, some drops fell moistening on my face,
And pattering on my hat - 'tis coming nigh! -
Let's look about, and find a sheltering place.
The little things around us fear the sky,
And hasten through the grass to shun the shower.
Here stoops an ash-tree - hark! the winds get high,
But never mind; this ivy, for an hour,
Rain as it may, will keep us drily here:
That little wren knows well his sheltering bower,
Nor leaves his covert, though we came so near.
And humming hive-bees homeward hurry by:
They feel the change; so let us shun the grain,
And take the broad road while our feet are dry.
Aye there, some drops fell moistening on my face,
And pattering on my hat - 'tis coming nigh! -
Let's look about, and find a sheltering place.
The little things around us fear the sky,
And hasten through the grass to shun the shower.
Here stoops an ash-tree - hark! the winds get high,
But never mind; this ivy, for an hour,
Rain as it may, will keep us drily here:
That little wren knows well his sheltering bower,
Nor leaves his covert, though we came so near.