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.