The Oriole sings in the greening grove br As if he were half-way waiting, br The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green, br Timid, and hesitating. br The rain comes down in a torrent sweep br And the nights smell warm and pinety, br The garden thrives, but the tender shoots br Are yellow-green and tiny. br Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill, br Streams laugh that erst were quiet, br The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue br And the woods run mad with riot.