Changing Time
THE cloud looked in at the window,
And said to the day, 'Be dark!'
And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane,
To stifle the song of the lark.
The wind sprang up in the tree tops
And shrieked with a voice of death,
But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,
Was touched with a violet's breath.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Related quotes
Rain Keeps Fallin
I remember the night so well.
The rain was fallin but I just couldnt tell,
If it was you that was callin to my love-sick brain.
But the rain kept fallin on my window pane.
Out of the night the thunder rang in my ear.
I cant fight the feelin, lord, that brings forth my fears.
I wish it was over, lord, please stop the rain.
The rain thats fallin on my window pane.
The rain thats fallin on my window pane.
Every night the rains on time, I can feel it in this heart of mine.
But I dont know what to do.
Well, I guess I could go back home, cause you know back home is where I belong.
But it just aint home without you.
And I dont know what to do, baby.
Well, I guess Im a looser but it just dont seem fair.
I lost all my life so tell me, why should I care?
The night that you left me is the night that it came.
And the rains still fallin on my window pane.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain ...
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
... keeps right on fallin.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said, the rain keeps fallin ...
song performed by by Grand Funk Railroad
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Rain
I.
The rain! the rain! the rain!
It gushed from the skies and streamed
Like awful tears; and the sick man thought
How pitiful it seemed!
And he turned his face away,
And stared at the wall again,
His hopes nigh dead and his heart worn out.
O the rain! the rain! the rain!
II.
The rain! the rain! the rain!
And the broad stream brimmed the shores;
And ever the river crept over the reeds
And the roots of the sycamores:
A corpse swirled by in a drift
Where the boat had snapt its chain--
And a hoarse-voiced mother shrieked and raved.
O the rain! the rain! the rain!
III.
The rain! the rain! the rain!--
Pouring, with never a pause,
Over the fields and the green byways--
How beautiful it was!
And the new-made man and wife
Stood at the window-pane
Like two glad children kept from school.--
O the rain! the rain! the rain!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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With The Lark
Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,
Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;
Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,--
Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong.
All the night through, though I moan in the dark,
I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,
Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.
But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,
I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;
And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,
Where the rain shall not grieve thro' the leaves of the tree,
There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,
For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;
And though life has been hard and death's pathway been dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Then And Now
Beneath her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
When all is still, as if the very trees
Were listening for the coming of her feet
That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
Sings some forgotten song of those old years
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.
poem by John McCrae
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Angeles
Just before nightfall
your new leaves
softly sway
in the cool delta breeze,
your limbs glint
in flames of
a deeper shade
where rough trunk rises
from clambering vines,
to violet fire.
Oh! Dance with the angels!
Dance with Lord
of the Trees!
His breath will stir you to passion,
His song will lull you
to sacred sleep.
poem by Steven Federle
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When Will It Rain
No one ever sees you cry
You just keep it all inside
In a warm place, where you can hide
When will it rain
When will it rain
I saw you laugh the other day
But all too fast it went away
Now your skys cloudy n gray
Falling mainly on the plain
When will it rain
When will it rain
No water fallls
Down your window pane
And when I look into your eyes
That window to your soul cant lie
Theres water where the well went dry
So how long can there be a drought
When your dams filled with doubt
No place to build your house
Let your cup runneth over and out
I said for crying out loud
When will it rain
When will it rain
No water fallls
Down your window pane
When will it rain
When will it rain
A tear for fear is calling out your name
Rain on me
song performed by by Extreme
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Maybe It Shall Rain
Maybe it shall rain
with drops upon my pane
and I shall finger them from inside
and feel the likeness to how I cried.
But rain will stop and tears will too.
It will be hard for me to view
my window pane without touching it
and it will be a chore for me to sit
and wait for raindrops on my pane
without remembering every stain
of drops and tears that came to me
and prove that they still can be
hurtful.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Like The Rain
I never liked the rain until I walked through it with you
Every thunder cloud that came was one more I might not get through
On the darkest day theres always light and now I see it too
But I never liked the rain until I walked through it with you
I hear it falling in the night and filling up my mind
All the heavens rivers come to light and I see it all unwind
I hear it talking through the trees and on the window pane
And when I hear it I just cant believe I never liked the rain
Like the rain I have fallen for you and I know just why you
Liked the rain always calling for you Im falling for you now
Just like the rain
When the cloud is rolling over thunder striking me
Its as bright as lightning and I wonder why I couldnt see
That its always good and when the flood is gone we still remain
Guess Ive known all along I just belong here with you falling
Like the rain I have fallen for you and I know just why you
Liked the rain always calling for you, Im falling for you now
Just like the rain I have fallen for you
Im falling for you know just like the rain
And when the night falls on our better days
And were looking to the sky
For the winds to take us high above the plains
I know that well find better ways to look into the eye
Of the storms that will be calling
Forever well be falling
Like the rain I have fallen for you, and I know just why you
Like the rain always calling for you, Im falling for you now just
Like the rain I have fallen for you and I know just why you
Like the rain always calling for you, Im falling for you now just
Like the rain I have fallen for you and I know just why you
Like the rain always calling for you, Im falling for you now just
Like the rain
Like the rain
Like the rain
Like the rain
Like the rain
Like the rain
song performed by by Clint Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Red Rose
The little red rose tapped at my window—
Tapped at my window long years ago;
Glad would I run then, trip to the shadow,
Who was in hiding well did I know.
Last night I, nodding, heard at the casement
Soft knock-a-knocking come on the pane.
'Hush! 'Tis the lost rose taps at my window—
Red rose, oh, sweet rose, come back again!'
Listless I moved then, laughed at my fancies—
Wept at my fancies of years ago.
Slow went a-seeking who was in hiding,
Who came a-tapping—how should I know?
Pushed wide the window, leaned to the silence—
'Red rose, oh, sweet rose, come back again!'
'Twas but a dead branch, broken and brown branch,
Soft knock-a-knocking there on the pane.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Window Pain
As I sit here looking at the rain staring through my window pane I feel just sorrow and no glee sometimes I feel there's nothing left inside of me As I sit here staring through the window pane looking out towards the rain hoping the sun will make me change knowing how much I hate this pain. The sun came out but I did not change in once again came back the rain in so I sit here knowing it doesn't matter if its sun or rain the pain I feel will never change and once again I'm alone to stare at the rain sitting here looking through my window pane.
poem by ryan Robletto
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When The Sun Comes Out
When the sun comes out
And that rain stops beatin on my window pane
When the sun comes out
Therell be bluebirds round my door, singin like they did before
That ol storm broke out
And my man/gal walked off and left me in the rain
Though hes/shes gone I doubt
If hell/shell stay away for good,Id stop livin if he/she should
Love is funny, its not always peaches, cream and honey
Just when everything looked bright and sunny
Suddenly the cyclone came, Ill never be the same
Til that sun comes out
And the rain stops beatin on my window pane
If my heart holds out
Let it rain and let it pour, it may not be long before
Theres a knockin at my door
Then youll know the one I love walked in
When the sun comes out
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
There is ever a something sings alway:
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves dip rain,
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear
There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.
The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear--
There is ever a song somewhere!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Heat-Wave
Day after day, week after burning week,
A ruthless sun has sucked the forest dry.
Morn after anxious morn men's glances seek
The hills, hard-etched against a harder sky.
Gay blossoms droop and die.
Menace is here, as day draws to its peak,
And, 'mid the listless gums along the creek,
Hot little breezes sigh.
To-day the threat took shape; the birds were dumb.
Once more, as sullen, savage morning broke,
The silence told that trembling fear had come,
To bird and beast and all the forest folk.
One little wisp of smoke
Far in the south behind the listless gum
Grew to a purple pall. Like some far drum,
A distant muttering broke.
Red noon beheld red death come shouting o'er
These once green slopes-a leaping, living thing.
Touched by its breath, tree after tall tree wore
A fiery crown, as tho' to mock a king -
A ghastly blossoming
Of sudden flame that died and was no more.
And, where a proud old giant towered of yore,
Stood now a blackened thing.
Fierce raved the conquering flame, as demons rave,
Earth shook to thunders of the falling slain.
Brambles and bushes, once so gay and brave,
Shrank back, and writhed, and shrieked and shrieked again
Like sentient things in pain.
Gone from the forest all that kind spring gave…
And now, at laggard last, too late to save,
Comes soft, ironic rain.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Rain and the Wind
The rain and the wind, the wind and the rain --
They are with us like a disease:
They worry the heart, they work the brain,
As they shoulder and clutch at the shrieking pane,
And savage the helpless trees.
What does it profit a man to know
These tattered and tumbling skies
A million stately stars will show,
And the ruining grace of the after-glow
And the rush of the wild sunrise?
Ever the rain -- the rain and the wind!
Come, hunch with me over the fire,
Dream of the dreams that leered and grinned,
Ere the blood of the Year got chilled and thinned,
And the death came on desire!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Stone Breaking
March wind rough
Clashed the trees,
Flung the snow;
Breaking stones,
In the cold,
Germans slow
Toiled and toiled;
Arrowy sun
Glanced and sprang,
One right blithe
German sang:
Songs of home,
Fatherland:
Syenite hard,
Weary lot,
Callous hand,
All forgot:
Hammers pound,
Ringing round;
Rise the heaps,
To his voice,
Bounds and leaps
Toise on toise:
Toil is long,
But dear God
Gives us song,
At the end
Gives us test,
Toil is best.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Robin Suicide
A robin committed suicide today
dead against my living room window pane;
flying fast in chilly mid-November;
perhaps heading south.
The sound; wings blurred; a thump!
he went straight to ground.
He should have missed the house,
it's large, the window is below the roof,
he was not flying blind
or forgot to look.
Like a jet with no flaps down,
he hit the window full-throttle;
smashing pain.
I got up took a look
expecting him to fly or stir
but he didn't move below; lay quiet.
I went down to see.
Robin, older, neck awry
didn't stir, didn't move.
no silent cry.
Neck broken.
Instant Death.
Instant Oblivion,
I looked for mourners.
There were none.
This Robin was solo in Death as we all are;
on his own.
It didn't seem fitting
to conduct a garbage-can burial,
I said a few words, cursed,
and decided to bury him in dirt.
Picked him up by his tail plumage
took him to the back yard;
dug a shallow grave, mumbled something;
lay him down in there;
patted the top of his dirt pyre
my good deed done.
A dead robin in my yard,
by my window undone.
But, I was thinking was he really a deliberate suicide?
There were clues.
How can a Robin miss
a big house,
there must be more hints
to this dead Robin mystery.
Perhaps he was an old Robin, diseased,
disoriented by Alzheimer's, or a bird pandemic;
could have been a bird fight
he fled,
The Crows around here are criminals and rough;
the Robin could have been bested in a West Side Story Bird Fight.
I rose to look for myself;
to look for clues to Robins' death,
not content for the time being
to dismiss it lightly
as dumb bird lost.
So... from Robin's height my window pane looks straight
on through the house, out through the back windows and
out into the trees in my backyard.
Ah ha; Robin's keen eyes
could have been looking at
my backyard trees,
flying straight and hard, not seeing
the window pane. Blam and there you are-
an explanation which made some sense
Robin in seeing his destination could not see what was right before him;
Death with painful irony.
His grave lay beneath those trees
he was so intent
to reach.
Dead Robin flying fast,
gaze fixed upon his own death.
How Shakespearean.
I think final destinations,
as in where we will die:
inside hospitals, on the road,
in a plane for most of us
is unknown.
My robin could see his own demise;
the means to him were clear and unclear;
my window, both opaque
and transparent
was right there before him.
Ah, again how Shakespearean.
A Robin causality;
wonder if he had kids.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Once, When The World Of Trees....
A girl, not young
Is at my door beating,
‘What do you want of me, ’
A voice comes, speaking.
‘Only of me and mine
That you took from me,
Only the comb and wine
That once belonged me.’
‘I have no tines of yours, ’
A voice is stating,
‘Only the dark, these walls
A long time waiting.’
‘What of that early breeze
That caught my blushing
Once, when the world of trees
Went by, rushing? ’
‘What of the glimpses caught
Of shadows, fleeting?
Open this dark, your door,
And speed our meeting.’
‘Leave me to bury peace, ’
A voice, it trembles
‘I have no thought of lees,
Nor what resembles.’
‘I have no window-panes
No frost, no hoar-dew,
Fingers that traced old stains
Were here before you.’
Bolting the shutters fast
I heard, despite me
Voices that spoke were mine,
Rasped deep inside me.
‘Give me the breath, ’ she sobbed,
‘That I once sighed with – ‘
‘Never, ’ I said, ‘that breath
Was the breath you lied with.’
8 December 1985
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Voice
From our low seat beside the fire
Where we have dozed and dreamed, and watched the glow
Or raked the ashes, stooping so
We scarcely saw the sun and rain
Through the small curtained window-pane,
Or looked much higher
Than this same quiet red or burned-out fire,
Tonight we heard a call,
A voice on the sharp air,
And felt a breath stirring our hair,
A flame within us. Something swift and tall
Swept in and out and that was all.
Was it a bright or a dark angel? Who can know?
It made no mark upon the snow;
But suddenly, in passing, snapped the chain,
Unbarred, flung wide the door
Which will not shut again:
And so we cannot sit here any more.
We must arise and go.
The world is cold without
And dark and hedged about
With mystery and enmity and doubt,
But we must go,
Though yet we do not know
Who called, or what marks we shall leave upon the snow.
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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Juliet: Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Romeo: It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night‘s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Juliet: Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhal‘d,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet; thou need‘st not to be gone.
Romeo: Let me be ta‘en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I‘ll say yon grey is not the morning‘s eye,
‘Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia‘s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is‘t, my soul? let‘s talk; it is not day.
Juliet: It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us.
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt‘s-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Romeo: More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!
line from Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Psalm for 9-11 (dedicated to Fr. Mychal Judge)
I hear your soft voice
In the hushed evening breeze
as gentle wind fills
these tall, murmuring trees.
For you're never too far;
your soft breath I can feel.
My soul stirs with faith
that no anger can steal.
Through the cold, empty night
you fill my dark soul.
Your brilliant light breaks
death's harsh hold.
In the morning I'll hear
your clear voice proclaim
that my life you've restored,
bitter tears wiped away.
poem by Steven Federle
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