Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and
Remembering again that I shall
And neither hear the rain nor give it
For washing me cleaner than I have
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
Is dying tonight or lying still
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in
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
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be for what is perfect
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.
This is reminiscent of a passage Thomas wrote in a book “The Icknield Way” published 3 years earlier“I am alone in the dark still night, and my ear listens to the rain piping in the gutters and roar- ing softly in the trees of the world.
Even so will the rain fall darkly upon the grass over the grave when my ears can hear it no more.
I have been glad of the sound of rain, and wildly sad of it in the past; but that is all over as if it had never been; my eye is dull and my heart beating evenly and quietly;
I stir neither foot nor hand;
I shall not be quieter when I lie under the wet grass and the rain falls, and I of less account than the grass. . . .
Black and monotonously sounding is the mid- night and solitude of the rain.
In a little while or in an age—for it is all one—I shall know the full truth of the words I used to love,
I knew not why, in my days of nature, in the days before the rain: 'Blessed are the dead that the rain rains on.' ”
