Rain on the Roof
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Nothing puts you to sleep like rain on a roof—
the particular percussion of the drops,
the rhythm that has no ambition to repeat itself
and yet returns before the motion stops.
I have slept to it in houses I have loved
and in houses that were only mine by rent,
and in each case the rain made the ceiling friendlier,
the dark less alien, the long night less spent.
Rain on a roof is the world's oldest lullaby,
the one that needs no composer, no arrangement—
it only needs the clouds, the night, the willing sleeper,
and the simple, generous engagement.
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Nothing puts you to sleep like rain on a roof—
the particular percussion of the drops,
the rhythm that has no ambition to repeat itself
and yet returns before the motion stops.
I have slept to it in houses I have loved
and in houses that were only mine by rent,
and in each case the rain made the ceiling friendlier,
the dark less alien, the long night less spent.
Rain on a roof is the world's oldest lullaby,
the one that needs no composer, no arrangement—
it only needs the clouds, the night, the willing sleeper,
and the simple, generous engagement.
