Every valley drinks, Every dell and hollow:Where the kind rain sinks and sinks, Green of Spring will follow.
Yet a lapse of weeks Buds will burst their edges,Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks, In the woods and hedges;
Weave a bower of love For birds to meet each other,Weave a canopy above Nest and egg and mother.
But for fattening rain We should have no flowers,Never a bud or leaf again But for soaking showers;
Never a mated bird In the rocking tree-tops,Never indeed a flock or herd To graze upon the lea-crops.
Lambs so woolly white, Sheep the sun-bright leas on,They could have no grass to bite But for rain in season.
We should find no moss In the shadiest places,Find no waving meadow grass Pied with broad-eyed daisies:
But miles of barren sand, With never a son or daughter,Not a lily on the land, Or lily on the water.