A wet June day

Scents, sounds, as of November fill the air:
Of myriad blossoms down wet pathways strown;
Of ragged leaves off steaming branches blown
And dropped into dank hollows here and there.
Keen little gusts go whirling through the hush,
Driving the mist before them up the lane.
And lo, the lovely world grows ours again!—
The orchard fences, the one eider bush,
Prone with its white face in the thick drenched grass,
The rows of apple-trees, gnarled, dripping, sweet,
The highway with its pools agleam like glass;
Then, as still speeds the mist on shining feet,
Meadow, and wood, peaked roofs—beyond them shows
A windy west, the color of a rose.