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Sat Nov 10, 2018, 10:29 PM

Rain, by WWI Poet 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.


-And yes, he died in those fields...

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Reply Rain, by WWI Poet Edward Thomas (Original post)
JCMach1 Nov 2018 OP
central scrutinizer Nov 2018 #1

Response to JCMach1 (Original post)

Sun Nov 11, 2018, 12:03 AM

1. Shakespeare

That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain,
And follows but for form,
Will pack, when it begins to rain,
And leave thee in a storm.

From King Lear

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