I met the rain today in an open place, The young rain, adventuring, she danced as she came along.
Her dress was all of silver, she had a smiling face, And she sang to the dusty trees, a little song.
The dusty trees were glad and they clapped their hands. I saw a tired flower turn and smile.
At the bend of a little path where a linden stands, I watched the rain at play for a little while.
Her feet were small and they trod on the grass and bent it. She carried a scarf of mist that brushed my cheek.
She shook an odor out on the air to scent it, She bent to the barberries and I heard her speak.
I saw the rain go by like a girl with laughter, But I will never tell you the word she said.
That you must learn yourself and forever after Know how the leaves and grass are comforted.
I stood at a bend in the path and the rain went by me. I could see, like a skein of silk, her shining hair,
She turned with a little smile to satisfy me, For all the while she knew that I was there.
~~ Louise Driscoll (1875-1957) from The Garden of the West, 1922
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
Through a temperamental April night
I tossed upon my attic bed,
And gave myself to the rattle of rains On the gable overhead.
Rains of all moods slipped by: gray rains
That walked the eaves on panther paws;
Stony blue rains that scraped the tin With the sound of a grizzly's claws.
Whimpering rains that tried the latch And fumbled at each window-hook, Or slid with the belly of a snake Into each cranny and nook.
High-stepping rains like prancing steeds;
Rains that went galloping down the roof,
That shook the earth like buffalo-herds With thunder of flinty hoof.
The torrent ceased; and something dark
Depressed me, something in the dregs
Of April dripping from the eaves Into the rain-water kegs.
So hollow the sullen drop on drop,
So melancholy in the gloom,
I lit a candle and strove to drive The shadows from the room.
~~ Lew Sarett (1888-1954) from Collected Poems, 1941 [Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head
With silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
With its pitty-pat.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep tune
On our roof at night,
And I love the rain.
~~ Langston Hughes (1902-1967) from The Brownies' Book, April 1921
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
Blossom of the almond-trees,
April's gift to April's bees,
Birthday ornament of spring,
Flora's fairest daughterling!—
Coming when no flow'rets dare
Trust the cruel outer air;
When the royal king-cup bold
Will not don his coat of gold;
And the sturdy blackthorn spray
Keeps its silver for the May;—
Coming when no flow'rets would,
Save thy lowly sisterhood
Early violets, blue and white,
Dying for their love of light.
Almond blossom, sent to teach us
That the spring-days soon will reach us,
Lest, with longing over-tried,
We die as the violets died.
Blossom, clouding all the tree
With thy crimson 'broidery,
Long before a leaf of green
On the bravest bough is seen;
Ah! when wintry winds are swinging
All thy red bells into ringing,
With a bee in every bell,
Almond bloom, we greet thee well!
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted
knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
~~
John Masefield (1878-1967)
from Salt-Water Ballads, 1902
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
And after many days (for I shall keep These old things unforgotten, nevertheless!) My lids at last, feeling thy faint caress,
Shall open, April, to the wooded sweep
Of Northern hills; and my slow blood shall leap And surge, for joy and very wantonness — Like Northern waters when thy feet possess
The valleys, and the green year wakes from sleep.
That morn the drowsy South, as we go forth (Unseen thy hand in mine; I, seen of all) Will marvel that I seek the outmost quay,—
The while, gray leagues away, a new-born North Harkens with wonder to thy rapturous call For some old lover down across the sea.
~~ Francis Sherman (1871-1926) from Two Songs at Parting, 1899
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour
They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought — and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress — he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died —
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless —
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge —
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them — She was the Universe.
~~ George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) from The Prisoner of Chillon, and other poems, 1816
