| |
|
Rain,
midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this
bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again
that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give
it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the
dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that
none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night or lying
still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the
living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken
reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not
dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be for
what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me,
disappoint.
|
|
|
