The cold late rain drips from the low clouds close palling The gullied road winding thro' far woodbirds' calling, And wet woods, dark, dripping, with sodden leaf falling. The sharp west wind gives chase to lightened clouds flying, Swinging south, sweeping soft over long hill-slopes drying, While the warmer sun spills down thro' reek of things dying. The blue haze blurs soft, the horizon outlining; Hangs warm on the woodland with the summer sun shining Down woodroad, thro' woodcries, down thro' oaks carnadining; While fine spinning cobwebs from the deep blue sky reaches Web the sumach's sure red, trail from coppered gold beeches, Catch the sassafras scarlet, thread the gold of young maple, Dip to bursting burrs dropping—the squirrels' cramm'd staple. The home-call: whether cobweb, or beeches' gold tether, Wet woodroad, or woodcries, or red upland, or whether The haze on the home hill and weather, God's weather. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DESERTER['S MEDITATION] by JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN IN THE MILE END ROAD by AMY LEVY THE LAST GOODBYE by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON WHEN SHE COMES HOME by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY MEADOW-SAFFRON by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE IDYLL 15. THE EPITHALAMIUM OF ACHILLES AND DEIDAMIA by BION |