From: The Dial, Vol. II, No. I (July 1841).
Author:
Published: E. P. Peabody 1841 Boston
THE gladsome music of the shower! The rose lifts up its lip serene, The branches thrill and drip and bow, And still it pours, the welcome rain Yet more! exhaustless ‘t is, as Love, A pause,—again,—it’s almost past, The Earth is like recovered child, The lighted West! Oh God of Love!
The hasting, tripping, mingling sound,
Above, beneath me, all around,
On bank and tree and flower.
The insect’s still, that restless thing,
He makes no noise, he stirs no wing,
So fresh he grows and clean.
Luxurious to the air;
How green they look, how sweet and fair
They gladly seem to know.
Far down its rivers creep,
The very roots are bathing deep
The fainting roots of grain.
The bladed grass is full,
The pebble-stones are beautiful,
So cool and wet above!
The flowers seem to think,
As gasping eagerly, they drink
The fresh, the sweet, the last.
Heeding not, how an hour ago
It panting lay and faint and low,
So glad it is and wild.
Below, in silvery streams,
Like to Aurora’s softest beams,
While gold bursts out above!
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