Michael Field (1846-1914 / England)

I HEARD a morning thrush salute the rains
That beat in soft, prolific rush,
Armies of angry dewdrops on the panes,
In shower across the roofs: the thrush,
Through all this liquid measure,
Sang shrilly for his pleasure,
And, as the soft and shrill together mingled,
My ears voluptuously tingled.