Black grows the southern sky, betokening rain
And humming hive-bees homeward hurry bye
They feel the change; so let us shun the grain,
And take the broad road while our feet are dry
Ay, there some dropples moistened on my face
And pattered on my hat--tis coming nigh!
Let's look about, and find a sheltering place
The little things around, like you and I
Are hurrying through the grass to shun the shower
Here stoops an ash-tree--hark! the wind gets high
But never mind; this ivy, for an hour
Rain as it may, will keep us dryly here
That little wren knows well his sheltering bower
Nor leaves his dry house though we come so near