 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE SUNDIAL ON A WET DAY
I drip, drip hereIn Atlantic rain,
Falling like handfuls
Of winnowed grain,
Which, tear-like, down
My gnomon drain,
And dim my numerals
With their stain,—
Till I feel useless,
And wrought in vain!
770
In my despair
That, though unseen,
He is still up there,
And may gaze out
Anywhen, anywhere;
Not to help clockmen
Quiz and compare,
But in kindness to let me
My trade declare.
St. Juliot.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |