THE sky is greyer than doves, Hardly a zephyr moves, Little voices complain; The leaves rustle before the rain. No thrush is singing now, All is still in the heart o' the bough; Only the trembling cry Of young leaves murmuring thirstily. Only the moan and stir Of little hands in the boughs I hear, Beckoning the rain to come Out of the evening, out of the gloom. The wind's wings are still; Nothing stirs but the singing rill And hearts that complain. The leaves rustle before the rain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TIRED by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 2. LOS CIGARILLOS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON OCTAVES: 8 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON SACRIFICE by RALPH WALDO EMERSON WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE by BEN JONSON TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE THIRD DAY: AZRAEL by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW TWILIGHT AT THE HEIGHTS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN (IN THE DORIC MANNER) by JONATHAN SWIFT |