The long, long rain. Rain--and its threads identical, And its nails systematical, Weaving the garment, mesh by mesh amain, Of destitution for each house and wall, And fences that enfold The villages, neglected, grey, and old: Chaplets of rags and linen shreds that fall In frayed-out wisps from upright poles and tall. Blue pigeon-houses glued against the thatch, And windows with a patch Of dingy paper on each lowering pane, Houses with straight-set gutters, side by side Across the broad stone gambles crucified, Mills, uniform, forlorn. Each rising from its hillock like a horn, Steeples afar and chapels round about, The rain, the long, long rain, Through all the winter wears and wears them out. Rain, with its many wrinkles, the long rain With its grey nails, and with its watery mane; The long rain of these lands of long ago, The rain, eternal in its torpid flow! THE FERRYMAN The ferryman, a green reed 'twixt his teeth, With hand on oar, against the current strong Had rowed and rowed so long. But she, alas! whose voice was hailing him Across the far waves dim. Still further o'er the far waves seemed to float, Still further backwards, 'mid the mists, remote. The casements with their eyes. The dial-faces of the towers that rise Upon the shore, Watched, as he strove and laboured more and more. With frantic bending of the back in two, And start of savage muscles strained anew. One oar was suddenly riven, And by the current driven, With lash of heavy breakers, out to sea. But she, whose voice that hailed him he could hear There 'mid the mist and wind, she seemed to wring Her hands with gestures yet more maddening Toward him who drew not near. The ferryman with his surviving oar Fell harder yet to work, and more and more He strove, till every joint did crack and start, And fevered terror shook his very heart. The rudder broke Beneath one sharp, rude stroke; That, too, the current drove relentlessly, A dreary shred of wreckage, out to sea. The casements by the pier, Like eyes immense and feverish open wide, The dials of the towers--those widows drear Upstanding straight from mile to mile beside The banks of rivers--obstinately gaze Upon this madman, in his headstrong craze Prolonging his mad voyage 'gainst the tide. But she, who yonder in the mist-clouds hailed Him still so desperately, she wailed and wailed, With head outstretched in fearful, straining haste Toward the unknown of the outstretched waste. Steady as one that had in bronze been cast, Amid the blenched, grey tempest and the blast. The ferryman his single oar yet plied. And, spite of all, still lashed and bit the tide. His old eyes, with hallucinated gaze, Saw that far distance--an illumined haze-- Whence the voice sounded, coming toward him still. Beneath the cold skies, lamentable, shrill.