Float down upon the tawny hills,
O, misty banners of the rain!
With murmur as of forest rills,
Sweep softly down from hill to plain.

The woods await you, longing much;
The brown, sweet earth in waiting lies
To waft at the first quickening touch,
Her grateful incense to the skies.

Float to the fainting flowers, and lift
The drooping leaves from drooping stems;
Across the bay's white waters drift
And wake their myriad answering gems.

O pure, sweet spirit of the rain,—
No fairer thing the fair earth knows!
In you the gold of harvest grain,
In you the redness of the rose.

Sweep, with their jeweled fringes deep,
Your misty folds the land along,
And all its slumbering pulse will leap
To life, in blossom and in song.