THE RAIN.
Reading edition
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BY T. A. SWAN.
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The birds sing gayly in their bowers,
And we can gather what they sing;
But what, falling ’mong leaves and flowers,
What is the soft rain whispering.
I cannot understand their word—
Some tale those bright drops tell, I know,
For the corn leaves move as if they heard,
And barley fields nod to and fro.
The lily turns its chalice up
To catch the legends as they fall,
And on the blue-bell’s tiny cup
Rings many a fairy festival.
The brooklet o’er the meadow spreads,
And then, like elves, they dance and sing;
And clovers hang their blushing heads,
Like little creatures listening.
It is some good thing they relate;
For when the cloud has passed the sun,
The green fields smile with joy elate,
As the world had put new glory on.
And so, to me, they chant a strain
Uncomprehended by the sense,
But when they dash the window-pane,
I feel their soothing influence.
They lead me back to some bright scene,
Some fair spot in the shadowy past,
Which glows like the broad moon’s silver sheen
Far off upon the waters cast.
They ope the pleasant gate of dreams,
And from the phantom-world beyond,
How visions bright, in golden streams,
Like gift from an enchanter’s wand.
Kind dreams of sweet imagining—
Of the maiden fair shall love me well;
But mystic are the strains they sing,
Who she may be they will not tell.
And through the Future’s golden aisles,
They bear me up on angel wing;
And many a truth I’ve learned the whiles
From the bright rain softly whispering.