The plover pauses in his search For mollusks in the stream: And, nodding from his stilted height, Sends forth a frightened scream. Wee night-hawks veering through the mist, Indulge in croakings deep: While herons on the pebbly bar Their solemn vigils keep. The woodland's feathered choir is hushed . . . No note from all the throng: But with the passing of the rain Will come new feasts of song. Aye, sweeter will that music ring, Because for one brief day The Storm God in his fury snatched All loveliness away! |