XIX) Rain
The rain has blown on and away
And the sweet air is clear
And the sun’s yellow fire
Burns on the grass and the stone,
But wasted and spent is the day
And even is here
And hungry yet is my desire.
This longing how shall I still,
That no day is light enough,
No summer long enough,
No life deep enough
To fill,
But no loss is sharp enough,
No labour hard enough,
No hope false enough
To kill?
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