Rain in the glimmering street—
Murmurous, rhythmical beat;
Shadows that flicker and fly;
Blue of wet road, of wet sky,
(Grey in the depths and the heights);
Orange of numberless lights,
Shapes fleeting on, going by.
Figures, fantastical, grim—
Figures, prosaical, tame,
Each with chameleon-stain,
Dun in the crepuscle dim,
Red in the nimbus of flame—
Glance through the veil of the rain.
Rain in the measureless street—
Vistas of orange and blue;
Music of echoing feet,
Pausing, and pacing anew.
Rain, and the clamour of wheels,
Splendour, and shadow, and sound;
Coloured confusion that reels
Lost in the twilight around.
* * * * *
When I lie hid from the light,
Stark, with the turf overhead,
Still, on a rainy Spring night,
I shall come back from the dead.
Turn then and look for me here
Stealing the shadows along;
Look for me—I shall be near,
Deep in the heart of the throng:
Here, where the current runs rife,
Careless, and doleful, and gay,
Moving, and motley, and strong,
Good in its sport, in its strife.
* * * * *
Ah, might I be—might I stay—
Only for ever and aye,
Living and looking on life!
Graham R. Thomson (Rosamund Marriott Watson)