Rain repeats the song of recent nights, but softer, with barely a sound of itself, yet slicking the dark pavement revealed by that crack of light which the drape left askew lets loose. Mostly by that sheen, and by the splash of gathered drops that fall from leaf and eave, and by the scent of dampened soil and wood and grass, do I know the presence of this rain, until I venture out and feel it, little more than mist, touch my skin. Unlit by any moonlight, the equally secretive clouds wait for the east to reveal them by that band of gray light soon to wake the first birds. The hours of slow drumming about to end, I let my in-taken breath be the loudest thing I hear, and return the night air warmed with the softest of sighs for this serenity which must inevitably vanish.
Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock
by Wallace Stevens
The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with blue rings. None of them are strange, With socks of lace And beaded ceintures. People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles. Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches tigers In red weather.