Rain in Summer

How beautiful is the rain!After the dust and heat,In the broad and fiery street,In the narrow lane,How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,Like the tramp of hoofsHow it gushes and struggles outFrom the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-paneIt pours and pours;And swift and wide,With a muddy tide,Like a river down the gutter roarsThe rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looksAt the twisted brooks;He can feel the coolBreath of each little pool;His fevered brainGrows calm again,And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring schoolCome the boys,With more than their wonted noiseAnd commotion;And down the wet streetsSail their mimic fleets,Till the treacherous poolIngulfs them in its whirlingAnd turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side,Where far and wide,Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,Stretches the plain,To the dry grass and the drier grainHow welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed landThe toilsome and patient oxen stand;Lifting the yoke encumbered head,With their dilated nostrils spread,They silently inhaleThe clover-scented gale,And the vapors that ariseFrom the well-watered and smoking soil.For this rest in the furrow after toilTheir large and lustrous eyesSeem to thank the Lord,More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,From under the sheltering trees,The farmer seesHis pastures, and his fields of grain,As they bend their topsTo the numberless beating dropsOf the incessant rain.He counts it as no sinThat he sees thereinOnly his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these,The Poet sees!He can beholdAquarius oldWalking the fenceless fields of air;And from each ample foldOf the clouds about him rolledScattering everywhereThe showery rain,As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can beholdThings manifoldThat have not yet been wholly told,--Have not been wholly sung nor said.For his thought, that never stops,Follows the water-dropsDown to the graves of the dead,Down through chasms and gulfs profound,To the dreary fountain-headOf lakes and rivers under ground;And sees them, when the rain is done,On the bridge of colors sevenClimbing up once more to heaven,Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer,With vision clear,Sees forms appear and disappear,In the perpetual round of strange,Mysterious changeFrom birth to death, from death to birth,From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;Till glimpses more sublimeOf things, unseen before,Unto his wondering eyes revealThe Universe, as an immeasurable wheelTurning forevermoreIn the rapid and rushing river of Time.