 | The banshee and other poems |  |
145
RAIN.
The kindled clouds loom bright as burning smokeO'er the vast conflagration of the sky,
Rain in their folds, and inland heavily
Roll o'er the sodden fallows, all a-soak
Under the glowing sunset. Since I woke,
Till now with skirts updrawn sullenly fly
The hosts of gloom, has rain, rain rushing by,
Battered the woodlands with his watery stroke.
In baffled rage, tempestuous melancholy,
Throbs my oppress'd heart, as of one afar
From some last field of death and victory;
Who waits to hear his comrades' onset-volley,
Swordless and sick. What means this ghostly war?
What cause, what cloudy banner summons me?
| The banshee and other poems | |