Listen , Tryphaena; every bird is dumb,
The tingling stir of the cicala stops.
Rain on the burnished orange-leaf!—like drops
Oozed from an overladen honeycomb,
So slow, so rare. On dusty road and tree
Drops, kicking up the faint smells where they pat.
The skies are blind, the sea a sparkless flat,
And drops like beads fall tinkling on the sea.
Thicker on herb and mould they urge and crush
Volleys of eager exhalation out;
Sleep enters at the window, roundabout
I hear his light wings in the raindrops' rush.
To-morrow morn, Tryphaena, what a flush
And youth! The rain has been so long away:
Listen, he has a world of things to say;
We must not speak against his whisper—hush!
The tingling stir of the cicala stops.
Rain on the burnished orange-leaf!—like drops
Oozed from an overladen honeycomb,
So slow, so rare. On dusty road and tree
Drops, kicking up the faint smells where they pat.
The skies are blind, the sea a sparkless flat,
And drops like beads fall tinkling on the sea.
Thicker on herb and mould they urge and crush
Volleys of eager exhalation out;
Sleep enters at the window, roundabout
I hear his light wings in the raindrops' rush.
To-morrow morn, Tryphaena, what a flush
And youth! The rain has been so long away:
Listen, he has a world of things to say;
We must not speak against his whisper—hush!