XXVI. ‘What though the night be dissonant with rain’
What though the night be dissonant with rain,
And roofs drip in a mournful monotone
On the deserted streets, and breezes moan
Over the naked boughs like ghosts in pain;
Yet are there voices through the darkness blown
From some remote celestial domain
That hint of peace, and scatter all the vain
Questions that mock the soul brooding alone.
All nights are beautiful, but in the warm
Wet darkness that knows neither stars nor moon,
Whose bells half-heard through the complaining storm
Bind the wind’s discords in harmonious tune,
The soul withdraws into its cave of rest,
And dreams long dreams, well-loved, but not expressed.
