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.