As one who listens to the summer rain

Against the roof when all the night is still,

Save for the wind beneath the window-sill,

Crooning its homely, comforting refrain,—

And listening feels that neither joy nor pain

Can trouble now—only the faint sweet thrill

Of drowsiness and peace and rest until

The barque glides softly into sleep’s domain;

So I, whose empty way leads wandering

Between high garden-walls that hide the sun,

Hear sometimes on the breeze a simple strain

Of an old song you once were wont to sing—

And then forgetting all, I seem as one

Who listens spell-bound to the summer rain.