Through the stricken air, Through the buttonwood balls suspended on twig strings The rain-fog circles and swallows, Climbs the shallow plates of bark, the grooved trunks, And wind pellets go hurrying though the leaves. Down, down the rain, Down in plunging streaks of watered gray. Rain in the beechwood trees, Rain upon the wanderer whose breath lies cold upon the mountainside, Caught up with broken horns within the nettled grass, With hooves relinquished on the breathing stones eatened with rain strokes. Rain has buried her seed and her dead; They spring together in this fertile air loud with thunder.