[Alex Smart]

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but 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 hear I pray that none whome once I loved
Is dying tonight of 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 love if perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tell em, dissapoint


Taken from Thomas (war poet WW1)