There’s naught as nice as th’ smell o’ good clean earth, except th’ smell o’ fresh growin’ things when th’ rain falls on ‘em. I get out on th’ moor many a day when it’s rainin’ an’ I lie under a bush an’ listen to th’ soft swish o’ drops on th’ heather an’ I just sniff and sniff.
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden.
Bless you. Listen to me:
my man wore the flowers,
and there were young leaves for me;
their blossoms gold,
their buds; sapphire,
tell me, what do you call
those trees on his mountain slopes?
A.K. Ramanujan, from ‘Kurinci: Lovers’ Meetings’,
in Poems of Love and War.
On silver light
lay silver rain.
Robert Gray, from ‘Echoes’.