I hear the rustle of the trees;
their leafy branches, by the breeze,
are blown about; they sway and swing,
as birds, with ruffled feathers, sing.
Behind the clouds, the sleepy sun
(too shy to show her face, like nun)
begins to gleam, to warm the world,
with love, as wind fans flags unfurled
upon the town hall’s trusty tower,
beside the clock that marks the hour.
Then rain, which lashed, so long, the ground
does cease, to leave the silver sound
of silence; wind, at last, has dropped;
the swaying branches all have stopped
and all seems still and so serene:
a silent sea of evergreen.