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Rain
Of waggons, with their awnings arched and tall,Struggling in sweat and steam, toil slowly byWith outline vague as of a funeral.Into the ruts, unbroken, regular,Stretching out parallel so farThat when night comes they seem to join the sky,For hours the water drips;And every tree and every dwelling weeps,Drenched as they are with it,With the long rain, tenaciously, with rainIndefinite.
The rivers, through each rotten dyke that yields,Discharge their swollen wave upon the fields,Where coils of drowned hayFloat far away;And the wild breezeBuffets the alders and the walnut trees;Knee-deep in water great black oxen stand,Lifting their bellowings sinister on highTo the distorted sky;As now the night creeps onward, all the land,Thicket and plain,Grows cumbered with her clinging shades immense,And still there is the rain,The long, long rain,Like soot, so fine and dense.
The long, long rain,Rain—and its threads identicalAnd its nails systematical,
Weaving
