The sky is greyer than doves, 
Hardly a zephyr moves, 
Little voices complain, 
The leaves rustle before the rain.

No thrush is singing now, 
All is still in the heart o' the bough; 
Only the trembling cry 
Of young leaves murmuring thirstily.

Only the moan and stir 
Of little hands in the boughs I hear, 
Beckoning the rain to come 
Out of the evening, out of the gloom.

The wind's wings are still, 
Nothing stirs but the singing rill 
And hearts that complain. 
The leaves rustle before the rain.