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Rain in the Night
Speak for me, rain in the night. I have said overmuch,
And of trivial things;
Surely there must be a city of silence for such
As are humble with grasses and wings,
And who never walk in the crowd, without that backward-turning
Glance which should spell the love of man, if only
The heart of man were not a strange thing and a lonely,
A banked fire slowly burning.
Listen, for this is the truth. Once on a thyme-steeped hill
There was a harp, and wild music. No harpist was there.
I had come upon God’s minstrelsy unaware,
Therefore with blind hands I fumble the chords of beauty, until
Their meaning shall ripple clear;
Rain in the night — torrents of amber, of crystal and blue —
You are the harp-strings, you.
Speak for me, rain in the night; it is sweet to lie still.
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