On a warm summer night, the speaker throws open the window, letting the cooled, rain-scented air rush over his face and fill the room. He immediately surrenders to what he calls the rain’s “sweet might”—not just the refreshing breeze, but the whole dark chorus of sound and smell. He hears the downpour, swift and heavy, and catches the fragrance of wet lime trees tossing outside. This stormy presence feels to him like a version of love itself, alive and active, weaving a kind of hopeful energy around falling asleep.
He rejects even the faintest artificial light and wants no glass between himself and the great, good rain. Instead, he lets the rain’s insistent rhythm become a sharp, soothing lullaby, and he trusts the sheer darkness—what he calls God’s darkness—to close his eyes. The mood is intimate and reverent, filled with a longing for immersion in the simple, holy rest that comes from being wrapped in the earth’s own shadow, lulled by a natural world that feels both wild and tender.