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As on the jag of a mountain-crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings. And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The Stars peep behind her and peer.
Like a swarm of golden bees,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-colored bow;
While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky:
I change, but I cannot die.
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822]
It is not raining rain for me,
It's raining daffodils;
Wild flowers on the hills.
The clouds of gray engulf the day
And overwhelm the town;
It's raining roses down.
It is not raining rain to me,
But fields of clover bloom,
Can find a bed and room.
A health unto the happy,
A fig for him who frets!
Robert Loveman (1864
O GENTLE, gentle summer rain,
Let not the silver lily pine,
To feel that dewy touch of thine,–
The cattle pant beneath the tree;
The earth looks up, in vain, for thee;
And soften all the hills with mist,
By thee shall herb and flower be kissed,
William Cox Bennett (1820-1895] !
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
Calls once again.
The April sun, the April sun,
And in gray shaw and woodland dun
One after one.
And between shower and shine hath birth The rainbow's evanescent glory;
Heaven's light that breaks on mist of earth! Frail symbol of our human story, It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, Like Life on earth.
Mathilde Blind (1841-1896)
TO THE RAINBOW
TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
To teach me what thou art;
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that Optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so,
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green, undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
To watch thy sacred sign!
To the Rainbow
And when its yellow luster smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the prophet's theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle, cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam:
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span;
Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)