Classic Poem

You are welcome, dusky cloud,
With your bosom swelling;
And your tears — their patter cheers
All my dusty dwelling:

And the gutter sudden wakes
In a thousand voices;
O, the song that rings along
Where the rill rejoices!

I am happy for the sight,
Joining your carouses,
Brook and I go laughing by
All the dripping houses.

You'll excuse us for the noise,
And our haste and flurry?
We must fly, for soon we die,
That is why we hurry.

I am here because I like
Just this sort of weather;
Brook takes me for company —
Down we go together.

Ha! this life's a merry one,
Though a thoughtless scorner
Cries, " The tomb is full of gloom,
Down upon the corner. "

What if all its life is brief —
Born of such a shower —
Running through a block or two,
Dying in an hour?

There is something still beyond —
Death is nothing surer —
Brook will flow, and ever grow
Softer, sweeter, purer,

Till the sun doth draw it hence,
T'wards its quenchless taper;
It will rise into the skies
As a silver vapor.

As it floateth in the air —
Merciful its slumber —
Then again is born the rain
Of that cloud of umber.

But the brook is growing still —
Is the rain abating!
In a breath will sudden death
Take it at the grating.

You would hardly know it now
For its faintest mutter —
A shriveled tongue that laps among
The cobbles in the gutter.