He is coming the gentle Rain,
Riding his steed, the wind;
And over the dusty plain
Where grasses thirstily pined
Floats a sigh—
"He is nigh!"
And the thunder grumbles his name
To the lightning's questioning glance;
While the air, like a restless flame,
Quivers and glows and pants
With the cry—
"He is nigh!"
