The
line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.
The road
is forlorn all day,
Where a
myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the
hoof-prints vanish away.
The
roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend
their bloom in vain.
Come over
the hills and far with me,
And be my
love in the rain.
The birds
have less to say for themselves
In the
wood-world's torn despair
Than now
these numberless years the elves,
Although
they are no less there:
All song
of the woods is crushed like some
Wild,
earily shattered rose.
Come, be
my love in the wet woods, come,
Where the
boughs rain when it blows.
There is
the gale to urge behind
And bruit
our singing down,
And the
shallow waters aflutter with wind
From
which to gather your gown.
What
matter if we go clear to the west,
And come
not through dry-shod?
For
wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The
rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never
this whelming east wind swells
But it
seems like the sea's return
To the
ancient lands where it left the shells
Before
the age of the fern;
And it
seems like the time when after doubt
Our love
came back amain.
Oh, come
forth into the storm and rout
And be my
love in the rain.
