From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, March 2, 1915. By Coates Kinney.
When the humid shadows hover
Over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,
What a joy to press the pillow
Of a cottage chamber bed,
And to listen to the patter
Of the soft rain overhead.
Every tinkle on the shingles
Has an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreamy fancies
Into busy being start;
And a thousand recollections
Weave their air-threads into woof
As I listen to the patter
Of the rain upon the roof.
Now in memory comes my mother
As she used in years agone,
To survey her darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn.
Oh! I see her leaning o’er me
As I list to this refrain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister,
With her wings and waving hair,
And her bright-eyed cherub brother—
A serene, angelic pair—
Glide around my wakeful pillow
With their praise or mild reproof
As I listen to the murmur
Of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me
With her eyes’ delicious blue;
And forgot I, gazing on her,
That her heart was all untrue;
I remember that I loved her
As I ne’er may love again,
And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate
To the patter of the rain.
There is naught in art’s bravuras
That can work with such a spell
In the spirit’s pure deep fountains
Whence the holy passions swell
As that melody of Nature,
That subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.