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.









