The Oriole sings in the greening grove As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue And the woods run mad with riot.
