Читать книгу Complete Poetical Works - Bret Harte - Страница 18

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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.