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!

O many-toned rain!

It hath caught the strain

Of a wilder tune,

Ere the same night's noon,

When dreams and sleep forsake me,

And sudden dread doth wake me,

To hear the booming drums of heaven beat

The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud,

With an echoing loud,

Bursts asunder

At the sudden resurrection of the thunder;

And the fountains of the air,

Unsealed again, sweep, ruining, everywhere,

To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet.

O myriad sweet voices of the rain!

When the airy war doth wane,

And the storm to the east hath flown,

Cloaked close in the whirling wind,

There's a voice still left behind

In each heavy-hearted tree,

Charged with tearful memory

Of the vanished rain:

From their leafy lashes wet

Drip the dews of fresh regret

For the lover that's gone!

All else is still;

Yet the stars are listening,

And low o'er the wooded hill

Hangs, upon listless wing

Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud,

Watching, like a bird of evil

That knows nor mercy nor reprieval,

The slow and silent death of the pallid moon.

But soon, returning duly,

Dawn whitens the wet hilltops bluely.

To her vision pure and cold

The night's wild tale is told

On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool,

The garden mold turned dark and cool,

And the meadows’ trampled acres.

But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers!

For now the moanings bitter,

Left by the rain, make harmony

With the swallow's matin-twitter,

And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree.

The infant morning breathes sweet breath,

And with it is blent

The wistful, wild, moist scent

Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth:

And behold!

The last reluctant drop of the storm,

Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm

And turned to gold;

For in its veins doth run

The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun!