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72
MISSING THE METEORS, 1866.
A hint of rain—a touch of lazy doubt—Sent me to bedward on that prime of nights,
When the air met and burst the aërolites,
Making the men stare and the children shout:
Why did no beam from all that rout and rush
Of darting meteors, pierce my drowsèd head?
Strike on the portals of my sleep? and flush
My spirit through mine eyelids, in the stead
Of that poor vapid dream? My soul was pained,
My very soul, to have slept while others woke,
While little children their delight outspoke,
And in their eyes' small chambers entertained
Far motions of the Kosmos! I mistook
The purport of that night—it had not rained.
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