Classic Poem

How the rain tumbles. Lord! —
Only last week I would have gone all night
Dripping and scurrying, of my own accord,
For just one sight
Of you. How can I be so bored
Now at your short imploring note?
I curse the ugly rain and you.
I know exactly how you wrote,
Smiling — and sobbing too ...
I will stay here. I will not go to you.

I know precisely how you'll look;
I can imagine every word you'll say;
I want to close you like a finished book:
Please let me have my way.

Why must I tell you that our love is done?
It lasted well, but now you have begun
To sorrow me. Be wise and understand.
Whatever purpose can be served indeed
By going two enormous rainy miles
To hold your hand?
Or is there any need
To trudge the lane, and climb the slippery stiles,
When, by this fire, and snugly in my brain,
I, without effort, may
Press your dry lips and hold your hands again.
And answer every word you'll have to say?

But I'm forgetting something ... Who was that
Loafing about your cottage all last week?
How cool he was, and always sat
Watching you, and would not speak.
Why was he there; and is he still?
It's raining less, I think. Who can he be?
Shall I put on my coat? I think I will.
He may — may not, be gone. I'll go and see.
I'll go and find out why you sent for me.