I sit aside the early morning’s rain;
It is too beautiful for sleep. Each grain
Of lightly fallen clouds makes more than just
A single sound when stopped. The thirsty lust
That drier days have seen is gone. There’s gladness
So sweetly wafting in, through grey skies’ sadness.
And in this beauty there’s a kind of sadness:
As always shown in every kind of rain.
Appreciating it, I’ve found a gladness
Akin to poorest men who find some grain,
Devour it. This mourning-song of lust
Would do so well to make all men adjust
Their minds—why fear the rain? It’s only just
That there’ll be space to free celestial sadness.
And frogs and toads will drink that watery lust
As fits their kind, to spawn droplets like rain.
To flood the fields of hotly yearning grain,
Is seeing farmers’ overwhelming gladness.
This I rest here. I contemplate the gladness
I am bestowed—what magic, and how just
It seems! that I now feed from sacred grain
Of joy. With one who’s mine we repel sadness;
And shuddering, we prance and play in rain.
If Time is kind, then this sweet dream of lust
So innocent won’t fade. My mind’s on lust
That one such other soul will share such gladness
Has finally been sated. I ask the rain
To take me words across—a message just
For one that makes my nights so free of sadness;
For one who bravely flies against the grain.
And so I watch this early morning’s grain,
Heart brimming with such happiness (at last!)
I pray my life will no more contain sadness;
Replacing it will be most welcome gladness…
That somewhen Time will let me enjoy just
A simple love, offered like morning’s rain.
This sadness flees, and I embrace the gladness
That I have lusted for. And love is just
Our souls ingrained in skies of our hearts’ terrain.