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Poem	Now on the hill The fitful wind is so still That never a wimpling mist uplifts, Nor a trembling leaf drop-laden stirs; From the ancient firs Aroma of balsam drifts, And the silent places are filled With elusive odors distilled By the rain from asters empearled and frilled, And a wild wet savor that dwells Far adown in tawny fallows and bracken dells. Then with a rush, Breaking the beautiful hush Where the only sound was the lisping, low Converse of raindrops, or the dear sound Close to the ground, That grasses make when they grow, Comes the wind in a gay, Rollicking, turbulent way, To winnow each bough and toss each spray, Piping and whistling in glee With the vibrant notes of a merry minstrelsy. The friendly rain Sings many a haunting strain, Now of gladness and now of dole, Anon of the glamor and the dream That ever seem To wait on a pilgrim soul; Yea, we can hear The grief of an elder year, And laughter half-forgotten and dear; In the wind and the rain we find Fellowship meet for each change of mood or mind.
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