What though the night be dissonant with rain, And roofs drip in a mournful monotone On the deserted streets, and breezes moan Over the naked boughs like ghosts in pain; Yet are there voices through the darkness blown From some remote celestial domain That hint of peace, and scatter all the vain Questions that mock the soul brooding alone. All nights are beautiful, but in the warm Wet darkness that knows neither stars nor moon, Whose bells half-heard through the complaining storm Bind the wind's discords in harmonious tune, The soul withdraws into its cave of rest, And dreams long dreams, well-loved, but not expressed.