The gentle quiet murmur of the summer rain,
Falling on attic roofs,
Brings to the store of old rejected things, below,
In the gabled darkened room,
The thought of youth;
As soft love-touched touches
On the arched and narrowed shoulders of a spinster
May recall
The failing hopes of unremembered joys.
And so on my heart,
Filled with the past's old dusty things,
Falls how the sweet and gentle softness of your voice.

-Constance Enslow, 1923