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Songs
of the Common Day, and Ave!
An
Ode for the Shelley Centenary
by
Charles G.D. Roberts
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RAIN
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SHARP
drives the rain, sharp drives the endless rain.
The rain-winds wake
and wander, lift and blow.
The slow smoke-wreaths
of vapour to and fro,
Wave and unweave and gather and build again.
Over the far gray reaches of the plain,—
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Grey miles on miles
my passionate thought must go,—
I strain my sight,
grown dim with gazing so,
Pressing my face against the streaming pane.
How
the rain beats! Ah God! If love had power
To voice its utmost
yearning, even tho' |
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Through
time and bitter distance, not in vain,
Surely her heart would hear me at this hour,
Look through the years,
and see! But would she know
The white face pressed
against the streaming pane? |
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