Poet: Mary Frances Butts
Is it raining, little flower
Be glad of rain.
Too much sun would wither thee.
'Twill shine again.
The sky is very black, 'tis true.
But just behind it shines the blue.
Art thou weary, tender heart?
Be glad of pain;
In sorrow sweetest things will grow.
As flowers in rain.
God watches, and thou wilt have sun
When clouds their perfect work
Have done.
Poet: Mary F. Butts
Pell! mell! comes the rushing rain,
The sad little brook laughs loud again.
The thirsty leaves on the great elm-tree
Drink up their portion thankfully.
There's a stir of joy in the garden-place;
Almost a smile on the pansy's face;
And I seem to hear a red rose say,
How glad I am that it rains to-day!
Down in a hollow in the path
Little Brown Sparrow is taking a bath,
And the pool in the yard is in perfect trim
For the baby ducks to have a swim.
Down fall the bright drops, tink-a-link!
A robin hastens to get a drink.
Through the flooded street, with a shout of joy,
And a splash and a dash, goes a barefooted boy.
Soft, soft, comes the gentle rain;
The faded earth is bright again;
And hark! the joyous children cry,
A rainbow! A rainbow in the sky!
Poet: Ardeen Foster
It fills the farmer's meadow-drain,
It wets the farmer's rye,
It wets the farmer's nodding grain,
This deluge from the sky.
It mends the barley of its blight,
The pea, the bean, the rose,
It bathes the com and puts to flight
The black-footed crows.
It feeds the thirsty clover-ground.
The river to the brink,
Aye, everywhere is water found,
But not a drop to drink.
Go, rain fill up the bull-frog hole,
And drench the bush and vine.
But when you mix the toddy-bowl,
Less water put in mine.
Poet: Mrs. F. B. Gage
Long ago a poet dreaming,
Weaving fancy's warp and woof,
Penned a tender, soothing poem
On the " Rain upon the Roof."
Once I read it, and its beauty
Filled my heart with memories sweet;
Days of childhood fluttered round me,
Violets sprang beneath my feet.
And my gentle, loving mother
Spoke again in accents mild,
Curbing every wayward passion
Of her happy, thoughtless child.
Then I heard the swallows twittering
Underneath the cabin eaves,
And the laughing shout of Willie
Up among the maple leaves.
Then I blessed the poet's dreaming
Blessed his fancy's warp and woof,
And I wept o'er memories treasured,
As the rain fell on the roof.
Years ago I lost the poem,
But its sweetness lingered still,
As the freshness of the valley
Marks where flowed the springtime rill.
Lost to reach, but not to feeling;
For the rain-drop never falls
O'er my head with pattering music,
But it peoples memory's halls
With the old familiar faces
Loved and treasured long ago,
Treasured now as in life's springtime,
For no change my heart can know.
And I live again my childhood
In the home far, far away;
Roam the woodland, orchard, wildwood,
With my playmates still at play;
Then my gray hairs press the pillow,
Holding all the world aloof,
Dreaming sweetly as I listen
To the rain upon the roof.
Every pattering drop that falleth
Seemeth like an angel's tread,
Bringing messages of mercy
To the weary heart and head.
Pleasant thoughts of years departed,
Pleasant soothings for to-day,
Earnest longings for to-morrow,
Hoping for the far away;
For I know each drop that falleth
Comes to bless the thirsty earth,
Making seed to bud and blossom,
Springing all things into birth.
As the radiant bow that scattereth
All our faithlessness with proof
Of a seedtime and a harvest,
So the rain upon the roof.
Poet: Coates Kinney
When the humid shadows hover
Over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,
What a joy 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 survey her darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn:
Oh! 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 her wings and waving hair,
And her bright-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 forget I, gazing on her,
That her heart was all untrue:
I remember that I loved her
As I ne'er may love again,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate
To the patter of the rain.
There is nought in art's bravuras
That can work with such a spell
In the spirit's pure deep fountains,
Whence the holy passions swell,
As that melody of Nature,
That subdued, subduing strain,
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
Poet: Unknown
MIillions of massive rain-drops
Have fallen all around;
They have danced on the house-tops,
They have hidden in the ground.
They were liquid like musicians
With anything for keys,
Beating tunes upon the windows,
Keeping time upon the trees.
Poet: Unknown
Forever and ever the reddening leaves
Float to the sodden grasses,
Forever and ever the shivering trees
Cower and shriek to the chilling breeze
That sweeps from the far-off sudden seas,
To wither them as it passes.
Forever and ever the low gray sky
Stoops o'er the sorrowful earth;
Forever and ever the steady rain
Falls on bare bleak hill and barren plain,
And flashes on roof and window-pane,
And hisses upon the hearth.
Forever and ever the weary thoughts
Are tracing the selfsame track
Forever and ever, to and fro,
On the old unchanging road they go,
Through dreaming and waking, through joy and woe,
Calling the dead hours back.
Forever and ever the tired heart
Bonders o'er the evil done;
Forever and ever through cloud and gleam,
Tracing the course of the strong life-stream,
And dreary and dull as the broken dream,
Forever the rain rains on.
Poet: Unknown
" Into each life some rain must fall."
If this were all - oh! if this were all,
That into each life some rain must fall,
There were fewer sobs in the poet's rhyme,
There were fewer wrecks on the shores of time.
But tempests of woe dash over the soul
Since winds of anguish we cannot control;
And shock after shock are we called to bear,
Till the lips are white with the heart's despair.
The shores of time with wrecks are strewn,
Unto the ear comes ever a moan
Wrecks of hope that set sail with glee,
Wrecks of love sinking silently.
Many are hid from the human eye;
Only God knoweth how deep they lie;
Only God heard when arose the prayer,
"Help me to bear - oh! help me to bear."
"Into each life some rain must fall."
If this were all - oh! if this were all;
Yet there's a refuge from storm and blast
Gloria Patri - we'll reach at last.
Be strong, be strong, to my heart I cry,
The pearl in the wounded shell doth lie;
Days of sunshine are given to all,
Though "into each life some rain must fall."
Poet: Lewis J. Bates
Into all lives some rain must fall,
Into all eyes some tear-drops start,
Whether they fall as gentle shower,
Or fall like fire from an aching heart.
Into all hearts some sorrow must creep,
Into all souls some doubtings come,
Lashing the waves of life's great deep
From dimpling waters to seething foam.
Over all paths some clouds must lower,
Under all feet some sharp thorns spring,
Tearing the flesh to bitter wounds,
Or entering the heart with their bitter sting.
Upon all brows rough winds must blow,
Over all shoulders a cross be lain,
Bowing the form in its lofty height
Down to the dust in bitter pain.
Into all hands some duty's thrust;
Unto all arms some burden's given,
Crushing the heart with its weary weight,
Or lifting the soul from earth to heaven.
Into all hearts and homes and lives
God's dear sunlight comes streaming down,
Gilding the ruins of life's great plain
Weaving for all a golden crown.
Poet: Paul Laurence Dunbar
The rain streams down like harp–strings from the sky;
The wind, that world–old harpist sitteth by;
And ever as he sings his low refrain,
He plays upon the harp–strings of the rain.
Poet: Unknown
How tired one grows of a rainy day,
For a rainy day brings back so much;
Old dreams revive that are buried away,
And the past comes back to the sight and touch.
When the night is short and the day is long,
And the rain falls down with ceaseless beat,
We tire of our thoughts as we tire of a song
That over and over is played in the street.
When I woke this morning and heard the splash
Of the rain-drop over the tall elm's leaves,
I was carried back in a lightning flash
To the dear old home with the sloping eaves.
And you and I, in the garret high,
Were playing again at hide-go-seek;
And bright was the light of your laughing eye,
And rich the glow of your rounded cheek.
And again I was nestled in my white bed
Under the eaves, and hearing above
The feet of the rain-steeds over my head,
While I dreamed sweet dreams of you, my love.
Love, my lover, with eyes of truth,
O beautiful love of the vanished years,
There is no other love like the love of youth,
I say it over and over with tears.
Wealth and honor and fame may come,
They cannot replace what is taken away;
There is no other home like the childhood's home,
No other love like the love of May.
Though the sun is bright in the mid-day skies,
There cometh an hour when the sad heart grieves
With a lonely wail, like a lost child's cry,
For the trundle-bed and the sloping eaves;
When, with vague unrest and nameless pain,
We hunger and thirst for a voice and touch
That we never on earth shall know again
Oh, a rainy day brings back so much!
Poet: Cobb
Gentle little rain-drops,
Falling from the sky;
Tiny silver rain drops,
While the clouds float by,
Little bells of silver,
Tinkling on the pane.
Sweetly sing the blessings
Of the April rain.
Precious little rain-drops.
Kiss old mother earth;
Fill her cold, dark bosom
Brimming full of mirth.
Welcome, little rain-drops,
Joy and gladness bring.
Thank you, April rain-drops,
For the song you sing.
Poet: Lucy P. Scott
Last night it rained, Oh! how it rained,
Pouring the whole night long.
The streams ran all along the roof,
Singing a gurgling song.
The leaves on all the dripping trees,
Shivered and shook themselves,
And the drops jumped off and fell below,
Like tiny playful elves.
The roses in the garden beds
The other flowers too.
Just dropped their clothes and took a bath
Of rain instead of dew.
The stream below the meadow green.
Called to the little brook,
"Come! Bring your friends down to the sea.
We'll go and have a look!"
This morning it is shining bright.
As though it never rained.
Only the sparkle on the grass
Has special beauty gained.
The garden looks untidy, like
A child that's played too hard.
With all its toys strewn here and there.
And nobody to guard.
But Oh! the earth is nice and clean.
And happy once again.
It's tears the sun will wipe away.
Nor leave a single stain.
Poet: Delia Hart Stone
Dark clouds in the air hid the blue sky so fair
We watched through the moistening pane,
And hoped it might bring, as a token of spring,
A sweet little shower of rain.
Soon the rain coming down on the cottage roof brown.
We heard with a thrill of delight.
It pattered and tinkled, and spattered and sprinkled
The new grass and leaves tender and bright.
Garden beds we had made it carefully sprayed,
Made greener the green fields of wheat.
Then hung out a bow with glory aglow.
How we breathed in the air fresh and sweet!
The bright little rills rippled down from the hills.
The clouds were all washed from the skies.
The song of a bird from a tree top was heard,
And the violets waked in surprise.
