by John Crowe Ransom

John Crowe Ransom

"Rain is a long susurrance; it is no loud
Clamor, yet mutes the terrible bugles; no night,
Yet darkens the insupportable sunlight
And flame-borrowing bush and feather; it is a cloud,
And cool upon your heads, poor wrinkle-browed
Percipiences! Not true Styx, yet a river
Washing the wounded senses of their fever;
Or like a wall let down, or like a blessed shroud.

"Think of the happy dead men lying in ponds
Filled of rainwater--eyeballs rolling wide
In the comfort of that undusty unlit tide--
Ears flowered green and huge beyond the bawling
That shook the air of earth—tumbled, or crawling
On naked legs among the lily-fronds.—

Last updated April 01, 2023