Rain in the Mountains

Henry Lawson, 1889

      The valley's full of misty cloud,
             Its tinted beauty drowning,
      The Eucalypti roar aloud,
             The mountain fronts are frowning.

      The mist is hanging like a pall
             From many granite ledges,
      And many a little waterfall
             Starts o'er the valley's edges.

      The sky is of a leaden grey,
             Save where the north is surly,
      The driven daylight speeds away,
             And night comes o'er us early.

      But, love, the rain will pass full soon,
             Far sooner than my sorrow,
      And in a golden afternoon
             The sun may set to-morrow.