And now the skies, repentant of their fault,
Will more than make amends. It rains again,
Beating a doleful measure on the pane,
Sobbing in sad, wild cadence through the street
While ever 'mid the rising, falling strains
The eaves drop notes as those of muffled drum,
Alone in rhythm, save, perchance, the beat
Of some tired horse's hoofs, as, homeward bound,
He treads the flooded pavement stones. And now
The sun, weary of contest for the day,