Rain by Edgar Fawcett

Oh, the Rain has many fitful moods
Ere the merry summer closes,—
From the first chirp of the robin-broods
To the ruin of the roses!

Through the sunshine’s gold her glitter steals,
In the doubtful April weather,
When the world seems trying how it feels
To be sad and glad together.

Now and then, on quiet sultry eves,
From her low persistent patter,
She would seem confiding to the leaves
An extremely solemn matter.

Then, again, you see her from the sky
Such a mighty flood unfolding,
That you wonder if Old Earth knows why
It receives so hard a scolding!

Yet we learn to fancy, day by day,
As we watch her softly shining,
That she has no cloud, however gray,
But it wears a silver lining!

For in autumn, though with tears she tells
How the lands grow sad and darken,
Yet in spring her drops are tinkling bells
For the sleeping flowers to hearken!

And her tinted bow seems Love’s own proof,
As it gleams with colors seven,—
Like a stately dome upon the roof
Of her palace, high in heaven!