Poems About Rain

In that desolate land and lone,Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone Roar down their mountain path,By their fires the Sioux ChiefsMuttered their woes and griefs And the menace of their wrath.

"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,"Revenue upon all the race Of the White Chief with yellow hair!"And the mountains dark and highFrom their crags re-echoed the cry Of his anger and despair.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;The vine still clings to the moldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

When the humid shadows hoverOver all the starry spheres,And the melancholy darknessGently weeps in rainy tears,What a bliss to press the pillowOf a cottage-chamber bed,And to listen to the patterOf the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shinglesHas an echo in the heart;And a thousand dreamy fanciesInto busy being start,

Clouds spout upon herTheir waters amainIn ruthless disdain, -Her who but latelyHad shivered with painAs at touch of dishonorIf there had lit on herSo coldly, so straightlySuch arrows of rain.

She who to shelterHer delicate headWould quicken and quicken

The April rain, the April rain,Comes slanting down in fitful showers,Then from the furrow shoots the grain,And banks are edged with nestling flowers;And in gray shaw and woodland bowersThe cuckoo through the April rainCalls once again.

The April sun, the April sun,Glints through the rain in fitful splendor,And in gray shaw and woodland dunThe little leaves spring forth and tenderTheir infant hands, yet weak and slender,For warmth towards the April sun,One after one.

And between shower and shine hath birthThe rainbow's evanescent glory;Heaven's light that breaks on mist of earth!Frail symbol of our human story,It flowers through showers where, looming hoary,The rain-clouds flash with April mirth,Like Life on earth.

It is not raining rain for me,It's raining daffodils;In every dimpled drop I seeWild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of gray engulf the dayAnd overwhelm the town;It is not raining rain to me,It's raining roses down.

It is not raining rain to me,But fields of clover bloom,Where any buccaneering beeCan find a bed and room.

A health unto the happy,A fig for him who frets!It is not raining rain to me,It's raining violets.

WHEN the sun comes after rain And the bird is in the blue,The girls go down the lane Two by two.

When the sun comes after shadow And the singing of the showers,The girls go up the meadow, Fair as flowers.

When the eve comes dusky red And the moon succeeds the sun,The girls go home to bed One by one.

And when life draws to its even And the day of man is past,They shall all go home to heaven, Home at last.

The rains at length have ceas’d, the winds are still’d,The stars shine brightly between clouds at rest,And as a cavern is with darkness fill’d,The vale is by a mighty sound possess’d

THERE trudges one to a merry-making With a sturdy swing, On whom the rain comes down.

To fetch the saving medicament Is another bent, On whom the rain comes down.

One slowly drives his herd to the stall Ere ill befall, On whom the rain comes down.

This bears his missives of life and death With quickening breath, On whom the rain comes down.

One watches for signals of wreck or war From the hill afar, On whom the rain comes down.

No care if he gain a shelter or none, Unhired moves one, On whom the rain comes down.

And another knows nought of its chilling fall Upon him at all, On whom the rain comes down.

October 1904.

THEY sing their dearest songs— He, she, all of them—yea, Treble and tenor and bass, And one to play; With the candles mooning each face . . . Ah, no; the years O!How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss— Elders and juniors—aye, Making the pathways neat And the garden gay; And they build a shady seat . . .

The fitful alternations of the rain,When the chill wind, languid as with painOf its own heavy moisture, here and thereDrives through the gray and beamless atmosphere.

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The gentleness of rain was in the wind.

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The sky is blue with summer and the sun,The woods are brown as autumn with the tan,It might as well be Tropics and be done,I might as well be born a copper Khan;I fashion me an oriental fanMade of the wholly unreceipted billsBrought by the ice-man, sleeping in his van(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

I read the Young Philosophers for fun--Fresh as our sorrow for the late Queen Anne--The Dionysians whom a pint would stun,The Pantheists who never heard of Pan.--But through my hair electric needles ran,And on my book a gout of water spills,And on the skirts of heaven the guns began(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

O fields of England, cracked and dry and dun,O soul of England, sick of words, and wan!--The clouds grow dark;--the down-rush has begun.--It comes, it comes, as holy darkness can,Black as with banners, ban and arriere-ban;A falling laughter all the valley fills,Deep as God's thunder and the thirst of man:(A storm is coming on the Chiltern Hills).

Said the robin to his mate In the dripping orchard tree:"Our dear nest will have to wait Till the blue sky we can see.Birds can neither work nor play,For the rain rains every day,And the rain rains all the day!"

Said the violet to the leaf: "I can scarcely ope my eye;So, for fear I'll come to grief, Close along the earth I lie.All we flowers for sunshine pray,