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.