Edward Thomas (
1878-
1917)
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 tonight 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 towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the
tempest tells me, disappoint.
- January 1916