The Rain

As I lay in the green tremble of spring A face softens; it comes dripping Through the trees, blisters gently, Through the downward lean of twigs;
I touch the familiar warmth of its face.

I feel it shortly awaken, Like the palpitating dark petals, It spills the rain’s quickness in prints, Which flicker and prickle by the boughs, The wild clamor rising now without end.

The harvests here are soft with life, And so once more I sink into it, To plummet on soft feet and find this light, Through hue on hue in a fighting dance, Where every drop is bright with wonder, and tries To touch the imprint of my fear— And hold.

The ring of love is a fleeting sigh, A taste through tenderness is contained, And it streams away toward the threshold, Over the chiaro scuro of the trees— This forest is breathing, flirting, Willing my finger through darkness and skies.

I cherish the rain, a sound echoing soft, As it trembles the dark songs that fall, It gilds the fields lifting the night, And now I scribble in notes made by its tide A gentle balance, this wide-toned hush of grass.

• Ted Hughes