Rain on the Roof

When the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to 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 air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother, As she used, in years agone, To regard the darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn: O! I see her leaning o’er me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. Then my little seraph sister, With the wings and waving hair, And her star-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; And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue: I remember but to love her With a passion kin to pain, And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain. Art hath naught of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul’s mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of nature, That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.