Rain on the Roof

WHEN the humid shadows hover

Over all the starry spheres,

And the melancholy darkness

Gently weeps in rainy tears,

What a joy to press the pillow

Of a cottage-chamber bed,

And to listen to the patter

Of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles

Has an echo in the heart;

And a thousand dreamy fancies

Into busy being start,

And a thousand recollections

Weave their bright hues into woof,

As I listen to the patter

Of the rain upon the roof.

Now in fancy comes my mother,

As she used to, years agone,

To survey her darling dreamers,

Ere she left them till the dawn;

Oh! I see her bending o'er me,

As I list to this refrain

Which is played upon the shingles

By the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister,

With her wings and waving hair,

And her bright-eyed cherub brother --

A serene, angelic pair! --

Glide around my wakeful pillow,

With their praise or mild reproof,

As I listen to the murmur

Of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes to thrill me

With her eye's delicious blue;

And forget I, gazing on her,

That her heart was all untrue:

I remember but to love her

With a rapture kin to pain,

And my heart's quick pulses vibrate

To the patter of the rain.

There is naught in Art's bravuras,

That can work with such a spell

In the spirit's pure, deep fountains,

Whence the holy passions well,

As that melody of Nature,

That subdued, subduing strain

Which is played upon the shingles

By the patter of the rain.

Coates Kinney