Like a drift of faded blossoms Caught in a slanting rain,
His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp In a tremulous refrain:
Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip!
Ah! but the chords were rainy sweet!
And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip,
As he played there in the street.
Patter, and drip, and tinkle!
And there was the little bed In the corner of the garret,
And the rafters overhead!
And there was the little window — Tinkle, and drip, and drip!— The rain above, and a mother's love,
And God's companionship!
