When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears,
‘Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed,
And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.
Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start;
And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof,
As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.
There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone,
To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn.
I can see her bending o’er me, as I listen to the strain
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair,
And her bright-eyed, cherub brother—a serene, angelic pair—
Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof,
As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me with her eyes’ delicious blue,
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue,
I remember that I loved her as I ne’er may love again,
And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.
There is naught in art’s bravuras that can work with such a spell,
In the spirit’s pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell,
As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain,
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!