Beloved, let us once more praise the rain. br Let us discover some new alphabet, br For this, the often praised; and be ourselves, br The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf, br The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone, br And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,— br Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion, br Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done. br There is an oriole who, upside down, br Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing,— br Under a tree as dead and still as lead; br There is a single leaf, in all this heaven br Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig: br The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught br Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs; br There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom br Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud. br The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly br Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock br Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail br Surveys the wet world from a watery stone... br And still the syllables of water whisper: br The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait br In the dark room; and in your heart I find br One silver raindrop,—on a hawthorn leaf,— br Orion in a cobweb, and the World.