Poetry Archives

Last night, above the whistling wind,
  I heard the welcome rain,—
A fusillade upon the roof,
  A tattoo on the pane:
The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
  A warlike trumpet blew;
Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife,
  A softer voice stole through.

“Give thanks, O brothers!” said the voice,
  “That He who sent the rains
Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew
  That drips from patriot veins:
I’ve seen the grass on Eastern graves
  In brighter verdure rise;
But, oh! the rain that gave it life
  Sprang first from human eyes.

“I come to wash away no stain
  Upon your wasted lea;
I raise no banners, save the ones
  The forest waves to me:
Upon the mountain side, where Spring
  Her farthest picket sets,
My reveille awakes a host
  Of grassy bayonets.

“I visit every humble roof;
  I mingle with the low:
Only upon the highest peaks
  My blessings fall in snow;
Until, in tricklings of the stream
  And drainings of the lea,
My unspent bounty comes at last
  To mingle with the sea.”

And thus all night, above the wind,
  I heard the welcome rain,—
A fusillade upon the roof,
  A tattoo on the pane:
The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
  A warlike trumpet blew;
But, mingling with these sounds of strife,
  This hymn of peace stole through.