XVIII

The country road at lonely close of day Rests for a while from the long stress of rain; Dripping and bowed, the green walls of the lane Reflect no glistening light, no colors gay Has dying Summer left. The sky is gray, As though the weeping had not eased the pain. The Autumn is not yet, and all in vain Seems Summer's life—a blossom cast away.

The air is hushed, save in the emerald shade The rain still drips and stirs each fretting leaf To soft insistence of its little grief. The hopeless calm all thought of life denies— But hark! out through the silence, unafraid, A robin ripples to the chilly skies.