Tuesday, 28 August 2012


Woke this morning to the sound of rain, relentless rain...again.  And this poem, which I always loved, since having to learn it by rote at school, inevitably rode through my mind.  Funny thing, memory - when I looked it up (to save typing it all out), it was different from how I remembered.  
Rain by 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 this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night 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. 


Jelley said...

Beautiful Exmoor rain and lovely words, thank you Jane.

Ashen said...

21Contemplating the imperfect. Rainy day here too, and solitude.

Anonymous said...

Thought-provoking piece; awful weather here again and so bored of the rain.

CJ x

Anonymous said...

Another fabric
Once in a while
So tough
Upside down
Deadly logic
Physical immortality
rain da age

Anonymous said...

A mo(ve)ment
She weighs
To dye

M)any colours
In a rain

Mineral T

De gustibus non disputandum est.

Exmoorjane said...