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.