Poetry Archives

A penciled shade the sky doth sweep,
And transient glooms creep in to sleep
    Amid the orchard;
Fantastic breezes pull the trees
Hither and yon, to vagaries
    Of aspect tortured.

Then, like the downcast dreamy fringe
Of eyelids, when dim gates unhinge
    That locked their tears,
Falls on the hills a mist of rain,—
So faint, it seems to fade again;
    Yet swiftly nears.

Now sparkles the air, all steely-bright,
With drops swept down in arrow-flight,
    Keen, quivering lines.
Ceased in a breath the showery sound;
And teasingly, now, as I look around,
    Sweet sunlight shines!