The garden trees are busy with the shower 

 That fell ere sunset ; now methinks they talk, 



Lowly and sweetly as befits the hour, 

 One to another down the grassy walk. 



Hark ! the laburnum from his opening flower 

 This cheery creeper greets in whisper light, 

 While the grim fir, rejoicing in the night, 



Hoarse mutters to the murmuring sycamore. 



What shall I deem their converse ? Would they 

 hail 



The wild gray light that fronts yon massive cloud, 

 Or the half bow rising like pillared fire ? 

 Or are they sighing faintly for desire 



That with May dawn their leaves may be o'er- 

 flowed, 



And dews about their feet may never fail ? 



ARTHUR HALLAM. 



