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For Poetry Monday, back to this guy who wrote poems only during WWI.

Rain, 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 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.

I remember rain. We had some once -- it's that water that falls from the sky. That was a while ago. Not as long ago as Thomas, though.


Subject quote from "Onto a Vast Plain," Rainer Maria Rilke tr. Joanna Macy & Anita Barrows.

Originally posted at http://larryhammer.dreamwidth.org/636070.html (where it has comment count unavailable comments). You can comment here or there.



( 4 comments — Leave a comment )
May. 15th, 2017 04:46 pm (UTC)
Wow, that's depressing. As you'd expect of a war poem.

Hah, I say, hah. You guys get way more rain than we do!
May. 15th, 2017 05:58 pm (UTC)
Some of his war poems are less relentlessly bleak. This one is ... so strongly vivid.

True, that, about more overall. We get a second summer season.
May. 16th, 2017 06:27 am (UTC)
Ah, Edward Thomas. Sometimes, just now and then, he's heart-breakingly perfect...
May. 16th, 2017 04:02 pm (UTC)
Emphasis on the adverb there.
( 4 comments — Leave a comment )