Again the woods are odorous the lark

Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray

That hung above the tree-tops veiled and dark

Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour

Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings

Them at the windows in a radiant shower

And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep

By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies;

And cradled in the branches hidden deep

In each bright bud a slumbering silence lies.