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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, easily 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.
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