Rain
By Edward Thomas
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.
--------
Tuesday, like Monday, mostly involved chores not worth reporting and some internet research on potential holiday gifts. We had a plumber for our annual inspection who found nothing we didn't already know (a.k.a. the first floor sink needs to be replaced), and we took a walk before the rain started in earnest though it was a gray, damp afternoon throughout.
My Voyager group watched "In the Flesh" which I did not remember and which was actually quite good. Then Paul and I watched Amsterdam, which is more enjoyable than its reviews -- could be more tightly edited but the enormous cast gives fine performances and the sets entertaining. Here are some animals from the Countryside Artisans tour Friday:
No comments:
Post a Comment