  All day I’ve sat and listened and watched The drearily falling rain, Driven by wearily sounding winds Against my cold window pane. The clouds drift low in the valley, Obscured is the lonely sea; Yet mournful tones from her bosom Are borne on the winds to me. All nature seems dead or dying, Enshrouded as by a pall; Mouldering leaves in eddies flying Patter dank against the wall. And all the day on my sensitive ear, ’Mid the sere grass and the flowers, Beats the dreary rain like mourners’ tears, Grieving sadly through the hours. There are lonely graves on the hillside, And thoughts that are full of pain, And dreams and regrets that are wakened To-day by the autumn rain. I listen in vain for a footfall, And a voice that’s hushed and still, Whose gentle, flute-like tones so tender Could all my poor being thrill. There is silence upon the uplands, Save the sob of the wind and rain; No dear note of the songbirds greet me From forest or vale or plain. They’re flown with the beautiful summer To a clime by the south wind fanned, With never a care nor a sorrow In that far-off southern land. And I would go hence in the gloaming, Ere the light of the soul be dead; I would rest where no earthly turmoil Could disturb my lowly bed. Perhaps at the heavenly dawning, Far beyond the light of the spheres, I may hear that voice and light footfall Through eternity’s changeless years. |
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