Читать книгу Complete Poetical Works - Bret Harte - Страница 12

     Last night, above the whistling wind,

       I heard the welcome rain,—

     A fusillade upon the roof,

       A tattoo on the pane:

     The keyhole piped; the chimney-top

       A warlike trumpet blew;

     Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife,

       A softer voice stole through.

     "Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice,

       "That He who sent the rains

     Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew

       That drips from patriot veins:

     I've seen the grass on Eastern graves

       In brighter verdure rise;

     But, oh! the rain that gave it life

       Sprang first from human eyes.

     "I come to wash away no stain

       Upon your wasted lea;

     I raise no banners, save the ones

       The forest waves to me:

     Upon the mountain side, where Spring

       Her farthest picket sets,

     My reveille awakes a host

       Of grassy bayonets.

     "I visit every humble roof;

       I mingle with the low:

     Only upon the highest peaks

       My blessings fall in snow;

     Until, in tricklings of the stream

       And drainings of the lea,

     My unspent bounty comes at last

       To mingle with the sea."

     And thus all night, above the wind,

       I heard the welcome rain,—

     A fusillade upon the roof,

       A tattoo on the pane:

     The keyhole piped; the chimney-top

       A warlike trumpet blew;

     But, mingling with these sounds of strife,

       This hymn of peace stole through.