Rain
by FRANCIS SWEENEY, S.J.
Lo, I awake and lie in the liquid dark,
Roofed with rain, chambered with running sound,
My feet in the tropic latitudes, each on an island,
Africa curving under my flanks,
My head on the whorled rock of Denmark
And Venice under my heart.
My ticking shilling pocked with light
Rides my wrist as lightly as the feet of falcon.
Roofed with rain, chambered with running sound,
My feet in the tropic latitudes, each on an island,
Africa curving under my flanks,
My head on the whorled rock of Denmark
And Venice under my heart.
My ticking shilling pocked with light
Rides my wrist as lightly as the feet of falcon.
All the dogs of Berkshire clamor together
Across the echoing valley at some lost figure of danger;
Only the sound of hooves like water spilled clop-clop
From a bronze bucket.
In the intimate distance the train struts like a lonely idiot
Playing giant-steps behind the hill.
I float on the black flood like a drowned sailor
Giving away the money I never had.
Across the echoing valley at some lost figure of danger;
Only the sound of hooves like water spilled clop-clop
From a bronze bucket.
In the intimate distance the train struts like a lonely idiot
Playing giant-steps behind the hill.
I float on the black flood like a drowned sailor
Giving away the money I never had.