Summer Rain

O rain, Summer Rain! forever,
    Out of the crystal spheres,
And cool from my brain the fever,
    And wash from my eyes the tears

Stir gently the blossoming clover,
    In the hollows dewy and deep,--
Somewhere they are blossoming over
    The spot where I shall sleep.

Asleep from this wearisome aching,
    With my arms crossed under my head,
I shall hear without awaking,
    The rain that blesses the dead.

And the ocean of man's existence,--
    The surges of toil and care,
Shall break and die in the distance,
    But never reach me there.

And yet--I fancy it often--
    I should stir in my shrouded sleep,
And struggle to rise in my coffin,
    If he came there to weep.

Among the dead--or the angels--
    Though ever so faint and dim,
I should know that voice in a thousand,
    And stretch my hands to him.

But the trouble of life and living,
    And the burden of daily care,
And the endless sin, and forgiving,
    Are greater than I can bear.

So rain, Summer Rain, and cover
    The meadows dewy and deep,
And freshen the blossoming clover,
    And sing me to dreamless sleep.

Kate Seymour Maclean

Kate Seymour Maclean, born on January 6, 1829, was a Canadian poet who carved out a significant place for herself in the literary scene of her time. Her poetry often reflected the deep appreciation she had for nature, and she was renowned for her elegant and evocative style. Maclean's work was well-regarded by her contemporaries, and she maintained correspondence with others in the literary community, including famous poets like Bliss Carman and Charles G.D. Roberts. She passed away on March 23, 1914, but her contributions to Canadian literature have left a lasting legacy.

Kate Seymour Maclean

A Farewell

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

The Watch-Light.

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

New Year, 1868.

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

The Coming Of The King.

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

English

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            All night a slow soft rain,
A shadowy stranger from a cloudy land,
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    "And Jesu called a little child unto him."
                MATT. xviii. 2.


Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are    cold!
Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould!
Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair,
And folded hands, and smiling lips, so exquisitely fair.

Cold and dark are the night dews around thy grassy bed,
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The autumn leaves are falling ungathered on the hill,
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The Return

I have been where the roses blow,
    Where the orange ripens its gold,
And the mountains stand with their peaks of snow,
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To make the land of my banishment
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And I heard the ring dove call
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And I saw the white waves heave and fall.
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I listened along the beach,
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And I watched the great sails furled.
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Tide-Water.

Through many-winding valleys far inland,
A maze among the convoluted hills,
Of rocks up-piled, and pines on either hand,
And meadows ribbanded with silver rills,
Faint, mingled-up, composite sweetnesses
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The tide sets up the river; mimic fleetnesses
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A Rune Of The Rain

O many-toned rain!
O myriad sweet voices of the rain!
How welcome is its delicate overture
At evening, when the moist and glowing west
Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest.

At first it would allure
The earth to kinder mood,
With dainty flattering
Of soft, sweet pattering:
Faintly now you hear the tramp
Of the fine drops, falling damp
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And the thirsty leaves, resound.
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River Song

Swift and silent and strong
    Under the low-browed arches,
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Sweeping with long forced marches
Down to the ultimate ridges,--
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And the down-dropping tassels of larches,
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Swift and silent and deep
    Through the noisome and smoke-grimed city,
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    And the great looms that have no pity,--
Weight, and pulley, and windlass,
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And hears no forest-learnt ditty,
    Not even in dreams and sleep.

Blithe and merry and sweet
    Over its shallows singing,--
I hear before I awaken
    The Bound of the church-bells ringing,
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