Poems About Rain—13 Heartfelt Works By Classic Poets

Have you ever looked out the window at a pouring sky and found absolution? The leaves turn unimaginably bright, the warm scent of fresh soil, the cool breeze of wandering clouds—it all seems otherworldly on a rainy day.

There is peace in this scene, there is melancholy, there is joy and laughter and dancing soaked and barefoot on the grass. Sometimes it seems as though the droplets that fall down this rains season are each of them tiny mirrors. They reflect perfectly how we feel. They convey unspeakable emotions, unknowable truths, boundless joys.

Poems About Rain

Here are 13 classic poems about rain. Read on as poets of an age gone by feel the same things we feel today as we look at sky bursting open in tears of passion. Nature is the one thing that remains still as it used to be, the one thing that we still look at in awe and wonder.

Before The Rain—Thomas Bailey Aldrich

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 
A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
Was lowering its golden buckets down 
Into the vapory amethyst. 
Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens— 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, 
Dipping the jewels out of the sea, 
To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed 
The white of their leaves, the amber grain 
Shrunk in the wind—and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain!

And here is the declaration, the premonition, the anticipation of rain. Here is how you feel one night looking up at the deep blue of the sky filled to the brim with clouds and knowing that ot will pour beautifully tomorrow. Here is a poem dedicated to the hope of waking up to the soft pitter-patter of raindrop on the glass window by your bed. How simple creatures we are—how easily entraced! It is perhaps one of our most splendid features.

The Rain Was Ending, And Light—Laurence Binyon

The rain was ending, and light
Lifting the leaden skies.
It shone upon ceiling and floor
And dazzled a child’s eyes.

Pale after fever, a captive
Apart from his schoolfellows,
He stood at the high room’s window
With face to the pane pressed close,

And beheld an immense glory
Flooding with fire the drops
Spilled on miraculous leaves
Of the fresh green lime-tree tops.

Washed gravel glittered red
To a wall, and beyond it nine
Tall limes in the old inn yard
Rose over the tall inn sign.

And voices arose from beneath
Of boys from school set free,
Racing and chasing each other
With laughter and games and glee.

To the boy at the high room-window,
Gazing alone and apart,
There came a wish without reason,
A thought that shone through his heart.

I’ll choose this moment and keep it,
He said to himself, for a vow,
To remember for ever and ever
As if it were always now.

Sometimes we look out at the world and just—stop. We cease the ceaseless action and just look. There is something that catches our eye sometimes—that wild flower, that fluttering butterfly, that soaked child dancing in the rain. Despite all our troubles and problems, some moments are held still in time.

The Rain—W.H. Davies

I hear leaves drinking rain;
I hear rich leaves on top
Giving the poor beneath
Drop after drop;
’Tis a sweet noise to hear
These green leaves drinking near.

And when the Sun comes out,
After this Rain shall stop,
A wondrous Light will fill
Each dark, round drop;
I hope the Sun shines bright;
’Twill be a lovely sight.

I love this poem for the simplicity with which the poet manages to capture the single, finite moment of water dripping down mesmerisingly from one leaf to the next. There is such visible beauty to this imagery, and to the anticipation of what will come next. The rain will make the world shine even when the sun rises.

The Wind Begun To Rock The Grass—Emily Dickinson

The Wind begun to rock the Grass
With threatening Tunes and low —
He threw a Menace at the Earth —
A Menace at the Sky.

The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees —
And started all abroad
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands
And threw away the Road.

The Wagons quickened on the Streets
The Thunder hurried slow —
The Lightning showed a Yellow Beak
And then a livid Claw.

The Birds put up the Bars to Nests —
The Cattle fled to Barns —
There came one drop of Giant Rain
And then as if the Hands

That held the Dams had parted hold
The Waters Wrecked the Sky,
But overlooked my Father’s House —
Just quartering a Tree —

All of Emily Dickinson’s poems hold a powerful sort of emphasis to them. The words fall like they have been queued together to invoke the exact image she wants you to see. Here she shows us the single drop, then the whole sky falling open like a dam breaking loose.

The Rainy Day—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Here is one poem in which the poet sees his own melancholy and sorrow reflected in the raindrops. Even here, where the rain is a thing of dark clouds and damp cheeks, it holds the beauty of necessity.

Rains—Oscar Williams

IN the country the rain comes softly with timid feet;
A grey silence is in her face, and strands of darkness blowing from her hair,
And trees are dark in her eyes, and the wind is a mournful gesture.
Softly the rain comes over the hills and her face is memory:
It is filled with the twilight blowing of waves and grasses;
It is filled with shadowy cloud-paws feeling among the valleys;
It is filled with the leap of trees that are instantly caught by the earth.

The spirit of all things breathes on the invisible pane of time,
And slowly out of the shadows the grey face of the rain comes into being—
Softly the rain comes over the hills and her face is sorrow.
But the rain in the city is a jazz rain:
The legs of the rain in the city are nimble—
She is loud on the stones, on the roof-tops, on the windows;
Her dancing is filled with the sway and the glitter of tinsel.

Behind her the street is a wide grin, showing the black teeth of houses—
The street is a wicked leer dark with ugly passion.
But though the laughter of the jazz rain is coarse in the gutter,
Though her legs are nimble and innumerable on the pavements,
Though the jazz rain speaks so loud,
The brazen rain has never a word for me.

Rain in the Hills—William H. Simpson

Were I the rain
Coming over the hills—
I should be glad

That my cool fingers could ease the little fevers of dusty
water-holes,
And caress curled leaves of the cottonwoods.

The herd,
Pawing, bellowing, would let me quiet them,
Standing in fresh pools by dusty water-holes–

If I were the rain
Coming over the hills.

Winter Rain—Frederick R. McCreary

It is sad, this rain
Drip-dripping in the night
Monotonously
Into the snow;
Dripping from the corners of the house
And the ends of black twigs
All night long without change.
Rain, rain soft-fingered,
Lifting up the white snow,
Uncovering the clay beneath;
Rain, soft,
Almost unwilling—
The fingers of an old woman
Who cannot resist
Slipping downstairs in the night
To the front room,
And lifting the sheet for a last look
At what it conceals.

Here is another one that brings out the sorrow and the pain. The rain seems to bring to the surface all our past regrets and future fears.

Rainy Season—Evelyn Scott

Dim gold faces float in the windows,
Subtle as perfume,
Soft as flowers.
Dim gold faces and gilded arms
Are clinging along the silver ladders of rain,
Climbing with ivory lamps held high;
Starry lamps
Over which the silver ladders
Thicken into nets of twilight.

Midnight Rain—Viola I. Paradise

The lightning pricks my heavy eyes awake.
My body, thunderstung
Out of its sluggish sleep,
Resents this midnight waking.
But soon
The long soft sibilant rain
Brings to the night a deep new rest.
The storm recedes,
And on the far warm low voluptuous thunder
I am rolled back to sleep.

This poem is unbearably soft and tender in its simplicity. There is such comfort in a safe jome and a warm bed and a pouring sky outside. The dreams are made of clouds and earth. Eventually, we are rolled back to sleep.

Rain at Night—Helen Hoyt

Are you awake? Do you hear the rain?
How rushingly it strikes upon the ground,
And on the roof, and the wet window-pane!
Sometimes I think it is a comfortable sound,
Making us feel how safe and snug we are:
Closing us off in this dark, away from the dark outside.
The rest of the world seems dim tonight, mysterious and far.
Oh, there is no world left!
Only darkness, darkness stretching wide
And full of the blind rain’s immeasurable fall!
How nothing must we seem unto this ancient thing!

How nothing unto the earth—and we so small!
Oh, wake, wake!—do you not feel my hands cling?
One day it will be raining as it rains tonight ; the same wind blow—
Raining and blowing on this house wherein we lie: but you and I—
We shall not hear, we shall not ever know.
O love, I had forgot that we must die.

This moment of beauty and love, this instance of heart wrecking tenderness is all that matters. We must die, yes, but so long as this moment is stretched in time, we are as endless as the sky.

Who Loves the Rain—Frances Shaw

Who loves the rain
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes,
Him will I follow through the storm;
And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;
Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,
Who loves the rain,
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes.

Frances Shaw’s little poem is a happy, hopeful thing, just like the raindrops falling gently down.

After The Rain—Thomas Bailey Aldrich

THE rain has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours an airy flood; 
And on the church’s dizzy vane 
The ancient cross is bathed in blood. 
From out the dripping ivy leaves, 
Antiquely carven, gray and high, 
A dormer, facing westward, looks 
Upon the village like an eye. 
And now it glimmers in the sun, 
A globe of gold, a disk, a speck; 
And in the belfry sits a dove 
With purple ripples on her neck.

Let us end with the poet we started. If Aldrich’s Before The Rain was beacon of hope and anticipation, then his After The Rain is no less magnificent with its portrayal of the bright sunlight that falls in after a hearty rainfall.

It renders the world a little better, a bit more alluring, a touch more heavenly than what it was before.

If you enjoyed reading these heartwarming poems about rain and the sky crying in joy or sorrow or love—check out 31 Poems About Summer to Read this July: Classic and Classy to read about beautiful summer poetry by your favorite classic authors.