The following is a poem I wrote, about rain, obviously, but also a sort of reflection on certain human emotions that many souls experience. The structure and even some of the ideas, I must admit, were partly inspired by John Keats' masterpiece, Ode to a Nightingale. I find myself looking to Keats as a model for my own poetry... Anyhow, this one is about rain.
The drops that beat
upon the window-pane
Arouse a thousand
thoughts and memories,
Dreams of what these
memories should have been,
Regrets, unquenched
desires – how my heart bleeds!
And yet, as I do
sit and hear the rain,
And dream of
blisses never yet possessed,
The running drops
do seem to soothe the pain
Which doth my heart arrest.
Ah, Rain! My soul
would arid be, didst thou
Not pour thy tears
forth from the darkened skies.
Ah, Rain! I’ll let
thee do the weeping now,
For I have wept
enough these days; mine eyes
Are all run dry.
Now heaven doth endow
The earth with
beauteous moisture, bathe the soil,
Wet every grassy
blade and leafy bough –
And calm me, ‘midst my toil.
O sweet and
mournful music! Do not cease!
Thou kindred of my
soul, play on! play on!
The sweetness of
thy droplet-tunes brings peace,
A sad contentment (strange!) to think upon
My past – the joy
which took to quick decrease,
Like to a most
unfaithful, lying friend –
And future – when I
shall be quick released,
To meet my final end.
How sweet to
breathe my last while thou dost fall,
And lie beneath the
soil which thou dost wet!
And after such
catharsis – so enthralled
By thee! – in
death, at last, sad life forget.
Truly, it were the
sweetest thing of all
To have thy
harp-like tunes my requiem,
Did Mother Fortune
grant it to befall
That I expire to them.
But soft! The music
slows and doth decline;
The clouds
disperse; the sun shines forth its rays –
In which but empty
comfort do I find.
Now hath the year
returned to drier days.
And now must all
the tears once more be mine,
For rain now
lacking, I must weep again.
Some souls will
bask in the golden light that shines,
But I will yearn for rain.
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