Summer in the South

                 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 piney,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.