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 pinety,

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.

Summer in the South by Paul Laurence Dunbar