THE rain drives, drives endlessly, Heavy threads of rain; The wind beats at the shutters, The surf drums on the shore; Drunken telegraph poles lean sideways; Dank summer cottages gloom hopelessly; Bleak factory-chimneys are etched on the filmy distance, Tepid with rain. It seems I have lived for a hundred years Among these things; And it is useless for me now to make complaint against them. For I know I shall never escape from this dull barbarian country, Where there is none now left to lift a cool jade winecup, Or share with me a single human thought. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUR CHRIST by HARRY WEBB FARRINGTON THE LOVER SHOWETH HOW HE IS FORSAKEN by THOMAS WYATT INSCRIPTION IN NETHER STOREY CHURCH IN MEMORY OF RICHARD CAMPLIN by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES THE THREE SAD SHEPPARDESSES, GOE TO A LITTLE TABLE, WHERE THEY SINGE by ELIZABETH BRACKLEY |