rain runs slick over the slate shingles: dripping,
dropping slow across wet stone, slipping into iron gutters.
the gables look out onto--into--grey sky, and
the greyness mists onto cold pane and screen and sill.
lonesome winds whisper aside the curtains and eaves
(ever so slightly) dropping, slight breath, and listen:
oh, so softly spoken: it will not be long, love . . .
so green and grey--grey and green. and I--I heed
absentmindedly and hear the Irish and the music
as wandering, wondering, my thoughts
mingle yellow lamp, clean-clouded rain-day,
spring-muted comfort and poetry in the
april breath and promise--but
no wings now, wait: stay awhile, dear dreariness,
and musing dream and word and thought, muddle mellow,
puddles and wet-eyed windows, soon, and lamplit home.