Classic Poem

When in the night we wake and hear the rain
Like myriad merry footfalls on the grass,
And, on the roof, the friendly, threatening crash
Of sweeping, cloud-sped messengers, that pass
Far through the clamoring night; or loudly dash
Against the rattling windows; storming, still
In swift recurrence, each dim-streaming pane,
Insistent that the dreamer wake, within,
And dancing in the darkness on the sill:
How is it, then, with us—amidst the din,
Recalled from Sleep's dim, vision-swept domain—
When in the night we wake and hear the rain?

When in the night we wake and hear the rain,
Like mellow music, comforting the earth;
A muffled, half-elusive serenade,
Too softly sung for grief, too grave for mirth;
Such as night-wandering fairy minstrels made
In fabled, happier days; while far in space
The serious thunder rolls a deep refrain,
Jarring the forest, wherein Silence makes
Amidst the stillness her lone dwelling-place;
Then in the soul's sad consciousness awakes
Some nameless chord, touched by that haunting strain,
When in the night we wake and hear the rain.

When in the night we wake and hear the rain,
And from blown casements see the lightning sweep
The ocean's breadth with instantaneous fire,
Dimpling the lingering curve of waves that creep
In steady tumult—waves that never tire
For vexing, night and day, the glistening rocks,
Firm-fixed in their immovable disdain
Against the sea's alternate rage and play:
Comes there not something on the wind which mocks
The feeble thoughts, the foolish aims that sway
Our souls with hopes of unenduring gain—
When in the night we wake and hear the rain?

When in the night we wake and hear the rain
Which on the white bloom of the orchard falls,
And on the young, green wheat-blades, nodding now,
And on the half-turned field, where thought recalls
How in the furrow stands the rusting plow,
Then fancy pictures what the day will see—
The ducklings paddling in the puddled lane,
Sheep grazing slowly up the emerald slope,
Clear bird-notes ringing, and the droning bee
Among the lilacs' bloom—enchanting hope—
How fair the fading dreams we entertain,
When in the night we wake and hear the rain!

When in the night we wake and hear the rain
Which falls on Summer's ashes, when the leaves
Are few and fading, and the fields forlorn
No more remember their long-gathered sheaves,
Nor aught of all the gladness they have worn;
When melancholy veils the misty hills
Where sombre Autumn's latest glories wane;
Then goes the soul forth where the sad year lays
On Summer's grave her withered gifts, and fills
Her urn with broken memories of sweet days—
Dear days which, being vanished, yet remain,
When in the night we wake and hear the rain.

When in the night we wake not with the rain—
When Silence, like a watchful shade, will keep
Too well her vigil by the lonely bed
In which at last we rest in quiet sleep;
While from the sod the melted snows be shed,
And Spring's green grass, with Summer's ripening sun,
Grows brown and matted like a lion's mane,
How will it be with us? No more to care
Along the journeying wind's wild path to run
When Nature's voice shall call, no more to share
Love's madness—no regret—no longings vain—
When in the night we wake not with the rain.