139 



" Rainbow at morning, 

 Shepherds take warning." 



There will be foul weather ere sunset. 

 The wind proclaims it, blowing in low, sob- 

 bing gasps, with breathless spaces between. 

 In the far empyrean warring hurricanes are 

 marshalling their legion clouds. Under 

 them a belt of air lies, absolutely stirless. 

 There is never a wave amid its faint white 

 cirrus lines. This fitful wind goes barely 

 so high as the tallest tree-tops. And still 

 the sun shines. 



Not wan and watery, but with all his 

 golden strength. The warmth, the bright- 

 ness of him, befool one brave red-breast to 

 pipe his fair-weather song. Or was it, in- 

 deed, some belated Dryad, or gnome, or elf, 

 overtaken by the dawn, and winging now 

 away to shelter in the wood's dark, peace- 

 ful deeps ? Truly, the note is heavenly 

 round, full, wildly sweet. Eerie almost in 

 this brooding hush, through which you smell 

 now the subtile fragrance of new rain fall- 

 ing a mile beyond. 



Reclothe you, and climb the farther hill. 

 From its top see the long, slant, silver lines 

 sweeping up the clear valley. The road 

 runs wide and level, straight into the heart 

 of the rain. Breathe the cattle a minute 



