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Falling, falling-gently falling,
Pattering on the window pane,
Like a weird spirit calling
Come the heavy drops of rain.

Sweeping by the crazy casement,
Where the creeping ivy clings,
Sounds the wind in gustful musings
Loudly speaking bitter things.

Hush! the tones are sinking lower,
Sweetest strains of music roll;
Like Aeolian harps in Heaven,
Pouring incense o'er the soul.

But 'tis gone! a wilder wailing
Fills the air where music reigned,
Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon,
Drowning all those sweeter strains.

And the tall pines shake and quiver
As the monarch rideth by;
Onward where the troubled river
Dashes spray-drops towards the sky.

But he pauses not to listen,
Onward with demoniac will;
Till Aeolian harps in Heaven
Softly whisper, "Peace, be still."

© Annie McCarer Darlington