 | The bells |  |
83
III.
THE NIGHT RAIN.
Piteous Rain! O how it sobs without!Driven from Heaven like a sinning child,
Thrust from the Gates by scolding winds and wild,
It wanders weary, drearily about.
At me it peereth through the window panes,
And almost asks if I would let it in—
I'm not proclivous, weeping child of sin.
Then off it speeds and curses and complains;
Its footfalls sound with quick and nervous beat
On dismal miles of dimly-lighted street.
It pauses oft, as if its tim'rous ear
Had caught a sound—'twas only sighing leaves—
Then rushes onward with a trembling fear,
And seeks to hide beneath protruding eaves.
| The bells | |