I am the daughter of Earth and Water,

And the nursling of the Sky:

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when with never a stain

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I arise, and unbuild it again.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

APRIL RAIN

It is not raining rain for me,
It's raining daffodils;

In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of gray engulf the day
And overwhelm the town;
It is not raining rain to me,
It's raining roses down.

It is not raining rain to me,
But fields of clover bloom,
Where any buccaneering bee
Can find a bed and room.

A health unto the happy,
A fig for him who frets!
It is not raining rain to me,
It's raining violets.

Robert Loveman [1864

April Rain

1395

SUMMER INVOCATION

O GENTLE, gentle summer rain,
Let not the silver lily pine,
The drooping lily pine in vain

To feel that dewy touch of thine,—
To drink thy freshness once again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!

In heat the landscape quivering lies;
The cattle pant beneath the tree;
Through parching air and purple skies
The earth looks up, in vain, for thee;
For thee for thee, it looks in vain
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams,
And soften all the hills with mist,

O falling dew! from burning dreams
By thee shall herb and flower be kissed,
And Earth shall bless thee yet again,

O gentle, gentle summer rain.

William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]

APRIL RAIN

THE April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers,

Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are edged with nestling flowers;
And in gray shaw and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.

The April sun, the April sun,
Glints through the rain in fitful splendor,
And in gray shaw and woodland dun
The little leaves spring forth and tender
Their infant hands, yet weak and slender,
For warmth towards the April sun,
One after one.

And between shower and shine hath birth The rainbow's evanescent glory;

Heaven's light that breaks on mist of earth! Frail symbol of our human story,

It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth,

Like Life on earth.

Mathilde Blind [1841-1896]

TO THE RAINBOW

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art;

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given
For happy spirits to alight.

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,

What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green, undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

To the Rainbow

And when its yellow luster smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
On earth, delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the prophet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle, cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam:

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span;

Nor lets the type grow pale with age,

That first spoke peace to man.

1397

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

GREEN THINGS GROWING

MY GARDEN

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,

Fringed pool,

Ferned grot

The veriest school

Of peace; and yet the fool

Contends that God is not

Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign:

'Tis very sure God walks in mine.
Thomas Edward Brown [1830-1897]

THE GARDEN

How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their incessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow;
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.