The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 30

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

THE CLOUD

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the las.h.i.+ng hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pa.s.s in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers Lightning my pilot sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits.

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star s.h.i.+nes dead, As on the jag of a mountain-crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings.

And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The Stars peep behind her and peer.

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky: I pa.s.s through the pores of the ocean and sh.o.r.es; I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb I arise, and unbuild it again.

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley [1792-1822]

APRIL RAIN

It is not raining rain for me, It's raining daffodils; In every dimpled drop I see Wild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of gray engulf the day And overwhelm the town; It is not raining rain to me, It's raining roses down.

It is not raining rain to me, But fields of clover bloom, Where any buccaneering bee Can find a bed and room.

A health unto the happy, A fig for him who frets!

It is not raining rain to me, It's raining violets.

Robert Loveman [1864-1923]

SUMMER INVOCATION

O gentle, gentle summer rain, Let not the silver lily pine, The drooping lily pine in vain To feel that dewy touch of thine,-- To drink thy freshness once again, O gentle, gentle summer rain!

In heat the landscape quivering lies; The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies The earth looks up, in vain, for thee; For thee--for thee, it looks in vain O gentle, gentle summer rain.

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams, And soften all the hills with mist, O falling dew! from burning dreams By thee shall herb and flower be kissed, And Earth shall bless thee yet again, O gentle, gentle summer rain.

William c.o.x Bennett [1820-1895]

APRIL RAIN

The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are edged with nestling flowers; And in gray shaw and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again.

The April sun, the April sun, Glints through the rain in fitful splendor, And in gray shaw and woodland dun The little leaves spring forth and tender Their infant hands, yet weak and slender, For warmth towards the April sun, One after one.

And between shower and s.h.i.+ne hath birth The rainbow's evanescent glory; Heaven's light that breaks on mist of earth!

Frail symbol of our human story, It flowers through showers where, looming h.o.a.ry, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, Like Life on earth.

Mathilde Blind [1841-1896]

TO THE RAINBOW

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art;--

Still seem; as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green, undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst s.h.i.+ne, How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow l.u.s.ter smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of G.o.d.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the prophet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs.