I

She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoon.

Gray skies and a foggy rain Dripping from streaming 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 diamonded rain-drops fill; Where, draggled and drenched together, The ox-eyes rank the rill By 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 the path I oft have stolen To the bridge; that rambles round With willows bound.

Through a bottom wild with berry, And packed with the ironweeds And elder,--washed and very Fragrant,--the fenced path leads Past oak and wilding cherry, Where the tall wild-lettuce seeds, To a place of reeds.

The sun through the sad sky bleaches-- Is that a thrush that calls?-- A bird in the rain beseeches: And see! on the balsam’s balls, And leaves of the water-beeches-- One blister of wart-like galls-- No rain-drop falls.

My shawl instead of a bonnet!... ’Though the woods be dripping yet, Through the wet to the rock I’ll run it!-- How sweet to meet in the wet!-- Our rock with the vine upon it,-- Each flower a fiery jet,-- Where oft we ’ve met.