Na de regen….

Mild the mist upon the hill

Telling not of storms tomorrow;

No, the day has wept its fill,

Spent it’s store of silent sorrow.

O, I’m gone back to the days of youth,

I am a child once more,

And ‘neath my father’s sheltering roof

And near the old hall door.

I watch this cloudy evening fall

After a day of rain;

Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall

The horizon’s mountain chain.

The damp stands on the long green grass

As thick as morning’s tears,

And dreamy scents of fragrance pass

That breathe of other years.

Emily Bronte