Rain
Edward Thomas
1878 to 1917
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Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray none whom once I loved
Is dying tonight or still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved the love of death,
If love it be towards is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.