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(578) Rain in Summer - Longfellow

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  • Sam Droege
    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
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 15, 2006
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      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 hoofs
      How it gushes and struggles out
      From the throat of the overflowing spout!

      Across the window-pane
      It pours and pours;
      And swift and wide,
      With a muddy tide,
      Like a river down the gutter roars
      The rain, the welcome rain!

      The sick man from his chamber looks
      At the twisted brooks;
      He can feel the cool
      Breath of each little pool;
      His fevered brain
      Grows calm again,
      And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

      From the neighboring school
      Come the boys,
      With more than their wonted noise
      And commotion;
      And down the wet streets
      Sail their mimic fleets,
      Till the treacherous pool
      Ingulfs them in its whirling
      And 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 grain
      How welcome is the rain!

      In the furrowed land
      The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
      Lifting the yoke encumbered head,
      With their dilated nostrils spread,
      They silently inhale
      The clover-scented gale,
      And the vapors that arise
      From the well-watered and smoking soil.
      For this rest in the furrow after toil
      Their large and lustrous eyes
      Seem to thank the Lord,
      More than man's spoken word.

      Near at hand,
      From under the sheltering trees,
      The farmer sees
      His pastures, and his fields of grain,
      As they bend their tops
      To the numberless beating drops
      Of the incessant rain.
      He counts it as no sin
      That he sees therein
      Only his own thrift and gain.

      These, and far more than these,
      The Poet sees!
      He can behold
      Aquarius old
      Walking the fenceless fields of air;
      And from each ample fold
      Of the clouds about him rolled
      Scattering everywhere
      The showery rain,
      As the farmer scatters his grain.

      He can behold
      Things manifold
      That have not yet been wholly told,--
      Have not been wholly sung nor said.
      For his thought, that never stops,
      Follows the water-drops
      Down to the graves of the dead,
      Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
      To the dreary fountain-head
      Of lakes and rivers under ground;
      And sees them, when the rain is done,
      On the bridge of colors seven
      Climbing 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 change
      From birth to death, from death to birth,
      From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
      Till glimpses more sublime
      Of things, unseen before,
      Unto his wondering eyes reveal
      The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
      Turning forevermore
      In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

      -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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