The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 
     The road is forlorn all day, 
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 
     And the hoof-prints vanish away. 
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, 
     Expend their bloom in vain.  
Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. 

The birds have less to say for themselves 
     In the wood-world’s torn despair 
Than now these numberless years the elves, 
     Although they are no less there: 
All song of the woods is crushed like some 
    Wild, easily shattered rose. 
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, 
     Where the boughs rain when it blows. 

There is the gale to urge behind 
     And bruit our singing down, 
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind 
     From which to gather your gown. 
What matter if we go clear to the west, 
     And come not through dry-shod? 
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast 
     The rain-fresh goldenrod. 

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells 
     But it seems like the sea’s return 
To the ancient lands where it left the shells 
     Before the age of the fern; 
And it seems like the time when after doubt 
     Our love came back amain. 
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 
     And be my love in the rain. 
I wanna be the leader
I wanna be the leader
Can I be the leader?
Can I? I can?
Promise? Promise?
Yippee I'm the leader
I'm the leader

OK what shall we do? 

This was a season of our fathers' joy: 
not only when they gathered grapes and the fruit of trees 
in Israel, but when, locked in the dark and stony streets, 
they held--symbols of a life from which they were banished 
but to which they would surely return-- 
the branches of palm trees and of willows, the twigs of the myrtle, 
and the bright odorous citrons. 

This was the grove of palms with its deep well 
in the stony ghetto in the blaze of noon; 
this the living stream lined with willows; 
and this the thick-leaved myrtles and trees heavy with fruit 
in the barren ghetto--a garden 
where the unjustly hated were justly safe at last. 

In booths this week of holiday
as those who gathered grapes in Israel lived 
and also to remember we were cared for 
in the wilderness-- 
I remember how frail my present dwelling is 
even if of stones and steel.

I know this is the season of our joy: 
we have completed the readings of the Law 
and we begin again; 
but I remember how slowly I have learnt, how little, 
how fast the year went by, the years--how few.