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...WE HAVE GONE THROUGH GREAT ROOMS TOGETHER by CARL SANDBURG THE DESERTED HOUSE by ALFRED TENNYSON THE SONNET by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE HYMNARY: 324. WHITSUNTIDE by ADAM OF SAINT VICTOR IN LIGHTER VEIN by ELIZABETH KEMPER ADAMS |