Question

rain on the roof poem

Answer 1

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.

Answer 2

hey!!

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.