The Rain in Winter

Poemata XLVI

At night, the rain is a substantial shadow.

This is, I believe, an evil rain
Soaking a man unto the bone
Rushing, pouring, just the same
No vagrants walk, just I alone;
No snow is given in this hour
As if night should chill the more
And descend, the cold devour
Any snow to sleet before
White become this shadowed way
And the rush of water cease,
Splash instead, in dark and gray
And the flow but more increase
And water creep through every pore
Through the hood, through the slick
Chilling, soaking to the core
As if no clothing is too thick;
And distance stretch beyond its ken
Each footfall accomplish less
No mere street, but boggy fen
Stuck in trudging, deep in mess
With pools instead of puddles now
Reflecting only distant light
And the sight that mist allow
Decrease until the range is slight
Lost despite the path so straight
Stumble forward, as in thrall
By wisp or spirit come so late
For a doorway strange to call
And stumble in, as in a trance
As though a figure from the past
And pull the hood, and how by chance
I find myself at home, at last.