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...THE SONG OF THE MAD WOMAN'S SON by KAREN SWENSON AT KENNEBUNKPORT by LOUIS UNTERMEYER A RED, RED ROSE by ROBERT BURNS VERSES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK by WILLIAM COWPER LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH (OWEN ROE) O'NEIL by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS LONGFELLOW by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY |