Skip to main content

The Voice of The Rain

                                                                - by.   Walt Whitman 


And who are thou? Said I to soft-falling 
shower, 
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer,  as here translated:
I am the poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain, 
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea, 

 Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely 
from 'd,  altogether changed, and yet the same, I descend to lave the droughts, 
atomies, dust-layers of the globe, 
And all that in them without me were
seeds only, latent, unborn; 
            
                    

And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin, 
And make pure and beautify it; 
(For song,  issuing from its birth-place, after
fulfilment, wandering 
Rock' d or unreck 'd,  duly with love returns.) 







                                                                                         

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Laburnum Top

                                   -Ted Hughes  The Laburnum top is silent, quite still  In the afternoon yellow September sunlight,   A few leaves yellowing , all its seeds fallen.       https://www.pexels.com/search/the%20labu     rnum%20tree/  Till the goldfinch comes,  with a twitching chirrup  A suddenness, a starlement, at a branch end.  Then sleek as a lizard, and alert, and abrupt,   She enters the thickness, and a machine starts up  Of chitterlings, and a tremor of wings, and trillings-  The whole tree trembles and thrills.   It is the engine of her family.   She stokes it full, then flirts out to a branch-end  Showing her barred face identity mask  Then with eerie delicate whistle-chirrup whisperings  She launches away, towards the infinite   And the ...

A Tiger in The Zoo

                        Poem of the day.                                                    by-  Leslie Norris                       He stalks in his vivid stripes      The few steps of his cage,        On pads of velvet quite,         In his quite rage,             He should be lurking in shadow,      Sliding through long grass      Near the water hole       Where plump deer pass.       He should be snarling around houses      At the jungle's edge,       Baring his white fangs, his claws,    ...

Keeping Quiet

                                    -Pablo Neruda    Now we will count to twelve    and we will all keep still.    For once on the face of the Earth    let's not speak in any language,    let's stop for one second,    and not move our arms so much.    It would be an exotic moment    Without rush, without engine,    We would all be strangeness.    Fisherman in the cold sea   would not harm whales    and the man gathering salt    would look at his hurt hands.    Those who prepare green wars,    wars with gas,  wars with fire,    victory with no survivors,    would put on clean clothes    and walk about with their    brothers   in the shade,  doing nothing.   What I want should not be confused  ...