A Rune Of The Rain

O many-toned rain! O myriad sweet voices of the rain! How welcome is its delicate overture At evening, when the moist and glowing west Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest.

At first it would allure The earth to kinder mood, With dainty flattering Of soft, sweet pattering: Faintly now you hear the tramp Of the fine drops, falling damp On the dry, sun-seasoned ground And the thirsty leaves, resound. But anon, imbued With a sudden, bounding access Of passion, it relaxes All timider persuasion. And, with nor pretext nor occasion, Its wooing redoubles; And pounds the ground, and bubbles In sputtering spray, Flinging itself in a fury Of flashing white away; Till the dusty road, Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed; And the grass, and the wide-hung trees, The vines, the flowers in their beds,-- The virid corn that to the breeze Rustles along the garden-rows,-- Visibly lift their heads, And, as the quick shower wilder grows, Upleap with answering kisses to the rain.

Then, the slow and pleasant murmur Of its subsiding, As the pulse of the storm beats firmer, And the steady rain Drops into a cadenced chiding! Deep-breathing rain, The sad and ghostly noise Wherewith thou dost complain--- Thy plaintive, spiritual voice, Heard thus at close of day Through vaults of twilight gray-- Vexes me with sweet pain; And still my soul is fain To know the secret of that yearning Which in thine utterance I hear returning. Hush, oh hush! Break not the dreamy rush Of the rain: Touch not the marring doubt Words bring to the certainty Of its soft refrain; But let the flying fringes flout Their drops against the pane, And the gurgling throat of the water-spout Groan in the eaves amain.

The earth is wedded to the shower; Darkness and awe gird round the bridal hour!