Now on the hill <br />The fitful wind is so still <br />That never a wimpling mist uplifts, <br />Nor a trembling leaf drop-laden stirs; <br />From the ancient firs <br />Aroma of balsam drifts, <br />And the silent places are filled <br />With elusive odors distilled <br />By the rain from asters empearled and frilled, <br />And a wild wet savor that dwells <br />Far adown in tawny fallows and bracken dells. <br /> <br />Then with a rush, <br />Breaking the beautiful hush <br />Where the only sound was the lisping, low <br />Converse of raindrops, or the dear sound <br />Close to the ground, <br />That grasses make when they grow, <br />Comes the wind in a gay, <br />Rollicking, turbulent way, <br />To winnow each bough and toss each spray, <br />Piping and whistling in glee <br />With the vibrant notes of a merry minstrelsy. <br /> <br />The friendly rain <br />Sings many a haunting strain, <br />Now of gladness and now of dole, <br />Anon of the glamor and the dream <br />That ever seem <br />To wait on a pilgrim soul; <br />Yea, we can hear <br />The grief of an elder year, <br />And laughter half-forgotten and dear; <br />In the wind and the rain we find <br />Fellowship meet for each change of mood or mind.<br /><br />Lucy Maud Montgomery<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rain-on-the-hill/
