Classic Poem

I HEAR strange voices in the warm, swift rain,
That falls in tumult upon town and field,
It seems to tell a mystery unconcealed,
Yet hieroglyphic to a mortal's brain.

It sighs and moans as if in utter pain
Of some colossal sorrow, never healed;
It warns of awful secrets unrevealed,
And every drop repeats the sad refrain.

And then I think of the enormous sea
Fed by these drops, with drifting wrecks bestrewn,
And dimly, vaguely, like a far-off sound,
The meaning of their sorrow comes to me,
For they may be, O rare, considerate boon,
Heaven's humble mourners for the unnumbered drowned.