Thirty Poems/A Rain Dream
A RAIN DREAM.
These strifes, these tumults of the noisy world,Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth,And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt,Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend,In what serener mood we look uponThe gloomiest aspects of the elementsAmong the woods and fields! Let us awhile,As the slow wind is rolling up the storm,In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets,For ever shaken by the importunate jarOf commerce, and upon the darkening airLook from the shelter of our rural home. Who is not awed that listens to the Rain,Sending his voice before him? Mighty Rain!The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists;Thy shadow fills the hollow vale; the poolsNo longer glimmer, and the silvery streamsDarken to veins of lead at thy approach.Oh, mighty Rain! already thou art here;And every roof is beaten by thy streams,And, as thou passest, every glassy springGrows rough, and every leaf in all the woodsIs struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slakeTheir thirst from thee; a thousand languishing fields,A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed;A thousand idle rivulets start to speed,And with the graver murmur of the stormBlend their light voices as they hurry on. Thou fill'st the circle of the atmosphereAlone; there is no living thing abroad,No bird to wing the air nor boast to walkThe field: the squirrel in the forest seeks His hollow tree; the marmot of the fieldHas scampered to his den: the butterflyHides under her broad leaf; the insect crowdsThat made the sunshine populous, lie closeIn their mysterious shelters, whence the sunWill summon them again. The mighty RainHolds the vast empire of the sky alone. I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream,The friendly clouds drop down spring violetsAnd summer columbines, and all the flowersThat tuft the woodland floor, or overarchThe streamlet:—spiky grass for genial June,Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman,And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves. I see these myriad drops that slake the dust,Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blueIn billows on the lake or on the deepAnd bearing navies. I behold them changeTo threads of crystal as they sink in earthAnd leave its stains behind, to rise againIn pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child, Thirsty with play, in both his little handsShall take the cool, clear water, raising itTo wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noonHow proudly will the water-lily rideThe brimming pool, o'erlooking, like a queen,Her circle of broad leaves. In lonely wastes,When next the sunshine makes them beautiful,Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drinkAt the replenished hollows of the rock. Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still,All through the starless hours, the mighty RainSmites with perpetual sound the forest leaves,And beats the matted grass, and still the earthDrinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds—Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks—Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling beeAnd brooding bird-drinks for her tender flowers,Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills. A melancholy sound is in the air,A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wailAround my dwelling. 'Tis the wind of night;A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud,In the black shadow and the chilly mist,Along the streaming mountain side, and throughThe dripping woods, and o'er the plashy fields,Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makesThe journey of life alone, and nowhere meetsA welcome or a friend, and still goes onIn darkness. Yet awhile, a little while,And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play,And dally with the flowers, and gaily liftThe slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain,And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky,White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.