The Night Storm

I like the attic chamber when the rain beats on the roof

     The rat-a-tat above me and the drip-drip just below;

I like the wind a-sighing, through maple branches crying,

     And the noises in the chimney where the frightened swallows go,

The rain drops are the drummers in my visionary war,

     The thunder is the cannon that are booming at the foe;

And the lightning is the flashes of the rifles in their crashes,

     And the moaning eaves are soldiers chanting songs of death and woe.

I like the attic chamber that I knew when but a boy,

     ‘Tis where I dreamed and pictured all the wonders I’d perform;

I would lead an army fighting on the heights of fame alighting,

     I would steer a ship in safety down the pathway of the storm.

These visions they have faded in the coming of the years,

     The work-a-day has conquered all the dreams that gave delight;

But my heart it ever singles out the room beneath shingles,

     Where I listened to the battles of the soldiers through the night.

Sun. Oct. 2, ‘10