Summer in the South

The oriole sings in the greening grove
 As if he were half-way waiting,
 The rosebuds peep from their hoods of
 green,
 Timid and hesitating.

 The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
 And the nights smell warm and piney,
 The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
 Are yellow-green and tiny.
 Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
 Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
 The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
 And the woods run mad with riot.

Paul Laurence Dunbar
1872 - 1906