I hope it rains like this all night. I’d like to go to sleep to it.
When my soul to weeping turns,
a dull and pleasant gloom
steals o’er my soul; and there I learn
true pleasure from the pain.
When before I shunned it,
now I glory in the rain.
A thunderstorm is always nice, especially in light of the depressingly fair and even weather we’ve been having recently. And we’re in the thick of it: I was outside and watched a tendril of lightning pry through the air, touch the ground, and instantly embolden before losing all existance in twenty seconds of thunder. Blind and deafened, I exulted in the water and sound.
The rain that on my head she falls,
her fog that ’round me shrouds
the world in closer gath’ring walls:
these my muses be.
’Twixt all that sorrow tells me,
all but love soon palls.
A whistle of wind, catlike (in a stormy, caterwauling way) follows on the tail of the thunder. Such a wonderfully and duly depressing sound is ambrosia to my soul now: the strains of love unrequited and nearly-requited and even (dare I think?) unwittingly (“Spring Fever”-like) requited are wearing on me even among their pleasance.
The whisper now rides with the wind,
and my love shall surely mend.
I savour now the siren-song:
pariah’s right’s not lightly won.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever have her. No matter, really. It is not the having her which is necessary, but the desiring — that nigh-on holy respectful worship of the Eternal Feminine* embodied in her.
I shall hear what’s death to hear;
be succoured by the night.
The poem intercalated here was originally written on December 25th, 2001, and has been tentatively titled (though I in general despise titles) “Siren’s Rain”.