Precursors

O that the rain would come — the rain in big battalions —

Or thunder flush the hedge a more clairvoyant green

Or wind walk in and whip us and strip us or booming

Harvest moon transmute this muted scene.

But all is flat, matt, mute, unlivened, unexpectant,

And none but insects dare to sing or pirouette;

That Man is a dancer is an anachronism —

Who has forgotten his steps or hardly learnt them yet.

Yet one or two we have known who had the gusto

Of wind or water-spout, and one or two

Who carry an emerald lamp behind their faces

And— during thunder-storms — the light comes shining through.