Winter Rain

Every valley drinks,

Every dell and hollow;

Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,

Green of spring will follow.

Yet a lapse of weeks,

Buds will burst their edges,

Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks,

In the woods and hedges.

But for fattening rain

We should have no flowers;

Never a bud or leaf again

But for soaking showers

Never a mated bird

In the rocking tree-tops;

Never indeed a flock or herd

To graze upon the lea-crops;

We should find no moss

In the shadiest places;

Find no waving meadow-grass

Pied with broad-eyed daisies;

But miles of barren sand,

With never a son or daughter,

Not a lily on the land,

Or lily on the water.