RAIN on the windows, creaking doors, With blasts that besom the green, And I am here, and you are there, And a hundred miles between! O were it but the weather, Dear, O were it but the miles That summed up all our severance, There might be room for smiles. But that thwart thing betwixt us twain, Which nothing cleaves or clears, Is more than distance, Dear, or rain, And longer than the years! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOHN WASSON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO W.P.: 3 by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE TURNSTILE by WILLIAM BARNES CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE by PHILLIPS BROOKS TO A FAT LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN by FRANCES CROFTS DARWIN CORNFORD ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE by WILLIAM COWPER ELAINE by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY |