Michael Field

1846-1914 / England

Morning-Rains

I HEARD a morning thrush salute the rains
That beat in soft, prolific rush,
Armies of angry dewdrops on the panes,
In shower across the roofs: the thrush,
Through all this liquid measure,
Sang shrilly for his pleasure,
And, as the soft and shrill together mingled,
My ears voluptuously tingled.
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