Classic Poem

The rain is falling upon the fields
Of green-tipt rice that grows in Ïse.
Under the thatch in a cloak of straw
The clouted peasant sits.
The sea is hidden by mist, that yields
And parts and closes again, in fleecy
Saddening silence, like a dream
That over sorrow flits.

The rain is falling upon the fields
Of flooded rice—the rain is falling.
Crossing the dimness like a wraith
A lonely 'rickshaw creeps.
The rain is falling and strangely wields
A power to hush the sea's calling—
Hush the sea and the peasant's heart,
Till sorrowless he sleeps.