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.