RAIN PICTURES

THE soft rain falls; the willow trees Throw silver tangle on the breeze, While Robin tunes his pipe and blows His joyance down the orchard-close. Amid the spraying crystal notes One irridescent bubble floats— Bubble of music, that careens Adown the pasture’s mottled greens. How tell the rapture that he sings To beatings of his happy wings? Why praise the story that he tells, The message that his bosom swells ...? Ah! he is Robin, and he goes, Singing the only song he knows. The sweet saps rise; the maple trees Drink deep and scatter crimson lees. I wander up and down the stream, Singing the music of my dream; Its cadence vague, its plaintive strain Attunes it to the Harp of Rain; The muted branches softly play An obligato to my lay; The drooping willows pluck the stream With pensive touch that marks the theme, And all the trilling water-tune Accompanies my simple rune. No heart have I to wake the green With joyous lilting loud and keen. I tune no pipe for jaunty snatch Like Robin’s loud ecstatic catch. I sing the song of wistful things, Dumb longings, blind imaginings.... And yet, why blame me that I stray, Crooning so poor a rondelay? Ah! I am Human, and I go Singing the only song I know.

My tree-calf books; my seven branched candle-stick; The pine-knot’s bursting heart, flame-plethoric; My jug from old Fiesole; the rain, And the witch-vine that darkly taps the pane. The witch-vine signals, and the rainy night Enters my heart; puts out its wan rush light, Like a chill blast of fore-writ doom and tears, Extinguishing the meaning of my years. Then come the spectral tapping on the pane, Counting the unmarked graves of things as vain As that bright-bound, dumb company of books And worthless treasure of my chamber nooks. Let be, O witch-vine fingers! I have grown So kindly used to living all alone. Let be, O furtive night! And I would fain Be unremarked of thee, O brooding rain! Be unreminded, when the tendril taps Keep count of years—of the remorseless lapse Of time ... for I must tend my fire yet, And hear the storm, and see the window wet, Thinking of some strange hour of frozen peace, When the reproach of wind and rain shall cease Thinking what Guest sits by ... when fires wane, And the witch-vine lies withered on the pane.

Down the black mountain The fairies come, I ween; Tarrying hither, Hurrying thither, Grey-bright, Phantom flight, Winging by the glass. Lo! spreads a green, Leaf-lattice screen. In the stark valley The fairies riches feign; They fling, they sprinkle Tiny gems a-twinkle; Water gems, Flower gems Sparkle in the grass. Lo! in the lane, Blood-root again. On the dull houses The fairies come to dance; They masque, they chatter, Elfin goblets shatter, “Health to Spring,” So they sing, Laughing in the eaves. Lo! like a lance, See sunlight glance! From a poor spirit The fairies take the fears; They soothe, they flatter, They sing, “What matter?” “Oh! Life is good to try!” Lo! through my tears, All the sky clears.