Sonnet II: That which Dreams

How a gentle rain, a soft rain shall drift
Upon my lonely night, and bring me rest
Like story-book music, beauty at its best,
It singeth songs so lovely and it lifts

My heart as I rejoice its subtle gifts.
Such wistful dreams of peace made manifest,
I lay my grateful head upon thy breast;
And sleep, at last, while on thy love, I drift.

I love thee as I love the touching rain
Which maketh us this soft, prismatic night;
I love thine happiness, I love thy pain
That I may ease with rain—and quiet light;
I love thee dearly as I would restrain
My tears which fall like gentle rain tonight.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Sonnet: The Hand of my Beloved

Thy hand hath stopped my fall and lifted me
To quell my tears, and cool my fervid cheeks;
Withal thy power hast thou known its plea:
To grant my heart this respite that it seeks.

Tomorrow, shall I write for thee, although
The Gods are neither fooled nor do they sleep,
But smile upon thee; surely do They know
I sing with joy their deeds an ne’er I weep.

But sweetly given me hast thou my voice,
And moved my spirit; for my hand is thine
To take thy gifted rest; though fear my choice:
That rest will fall to apathy’s decline.

Yet might for me despair make worse my plight;
Tomorrow, with thy gifts, for thee I write.

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