Rain on the Roof

Coates Kinney (1826–1904)

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.

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