Now on the hill 
The fitful wind is so still 
That never a wimpling mist uplifts,
Nor a trembling leaf drop-laden stirs; 
From the ancient firs 
Aroma of balsam drifts, 
And the silent places are filled 
With elusive odors distilled 
By the rain from asters empearled and frilled, 
And a wild wet savor that dwells 
Far adown in tawny fallows and bracken dells. 

Then with a rush, 
Breaking the beautiful hush 
Where the only sound was the lisping, low 
Converse of raindrops, or the dear sound 
Close to the ground, 
That grasses make when they grow, 
Comes the wind in a gay, 
Rollicking, turbulent way, 
To winnow each bough and toss each spray, 
Piping and whistling in glee 
With the vibrant notes of a merry minstrelsy. 

The friendly rain 
Sings many a haunting strain, 
Now of gladness and now of dole, 
Anon of the glamor and the dream 
That ever seem 
To wait on a pilgrim soul; 
Yea, we can hear 
The grief of an elder year, 
And laughter half-forgotten and dear; 
In the wind and the rain we find 
Fellowship meet for each change of mood or mind.