The April Rain

The April rain! How sweet and still
   It filters from the cool, gray cloud, 
On leafless wood and sallow hill
   Escaped from winter's frosty shroud.

A faint aroma from the turf
   Betrays the breath of springing grass:
And a low rustle, like spent surf,
   Tells where the dancing flower-sprites pass.

The very cloud is full of light,
   You know the sun lies warm above;
If these be tears their grief is bright
   With promise of restoring love.

The prophet eye of bard and bird
   Is not deceived by this light frown, 
With clearer joy their songs are stirred 
   As freelier yet the shower comes down.

‘Tis not alone the soft, gray rain
   They see come stealing from the sky, 
But all the glories of the plain 
   Like merry-maskers trooping by.

Under gray hoods, as silent nuns, 
   The blushing beauties of the year 
Seek earth-cells dark, till warmer suns
   Recall them in their festal gear.

Blood streaked anemone is there, 
   The wild rose and the violet;
Their pink and purple tinge the air 
   Where rifts the cloudy fringes fret.

There all the mingled green and gold 
   Of leaf and grass and starry flower, 
The bloom-elves and the wood nymphs fold 
   In swathings of the vernal shower.

We sleep; The earth is dull and sere;
   They work their silent witchery still;
We wake; the golden age is here!
   Earth drinks its rapture to her fill!

Oh, deeper than the greening sod, 
   Descends the tender April rain,
Down through a dead hope's arid clod,
   To melt it into life again!

We sing new songs, we know not why;—
   The gladness glorifying tears:
Seen through the rifts the new world's sky
   A depth of tender love appears.

Warm, pure, as is a mother's kiss,
   We feel the brooding heaven's caress:
The weeping cloud dissolves in bliss, 
   And life re-dons her regal dress.