XLI.

Hafez :
Portrait of the Persian Poet Hafez (Khajeh Shams al-Din Mohammad Hafez Shirazi)
(1320-1389)

“There are different wells within your heart.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far too deep for that.

In one well
You have just a few precious cups of water,
That "love" is literally something of yourself,
It can grow as slow as a diamond
If it is lost.

Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a
Stranger,
Only to someone
Who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them into a blanket
To protect you.

There are different wells within us.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far, far too deep
For that.”

― Hafiz, The Divan

Photo credit:  Pinterest / SuperStock
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hafez

XXXV.

Like Rain it Sounded Till it Curved 

~by Emily Dickinson

Like Rain it sounded till it curved

And then I new 'twas Wind -

It walked as wet as any Wave

But swept as dry as sand -

When it had pushed itself away

To some remotest Plain

A coming as of Hosts was heard

It filled the Wells, it pleased the Pools

It warbled in the Road -

It pulled the spigot from the Hills

And let the Floods abroad -

It loosened acres, lifted seas

The sites of Centres stirred

Then like Elijah rode away

Upon a Wheel of Cloud.

XXXIII.

The Rain Was Ending, And Light 

by Laurence Binyon


The rain was ending, and light
Lifting the leaden skies.
It shone upon ceiling and floor
And dazzled a child's eyes.

Pale after fever, a captive
Apart from his schoolfellows,
He stood at the high room's window
With face to the pane pressed close,

And beheld an immense glory
Flooding with fire the drops
Spilled on miraculous leaves
Of the fresh green lime-tree tops.

Washed gravel glittered red
To a wall, and beyond it nine
Tall limes in the old inn yard
Rose over the tall inn sign.

And voices arose from beneath
Of boys from school set free,
Racing and chasing each other
With laughter and games and glee.

To the boy at the high room-window,
Gazing alone and apart,
There came a wish without reason,
A thought that shone through his heart.

I'll choose this moment and keep it,
He said to himself, for a vow,
To remember for ever and ever
As if it were always now.

Credit: Images:  chron.com

XXXII.

XXXI.

Beloved, Let Us Once More Praise The Rain 
by Conrad Aiken


Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.

Let us discover some new alphabet,

For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,

The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,

The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,

And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,—

Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,

Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done.

There is an oriole who, upside down,

Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing,

—Under a tree as dead and still as lead;

There is a single leaf, in all this heaven

Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig:

The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught

Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs;

There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom

Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud.

The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly

Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock

Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail

Surveys the wet world from a watery stone...

And still the syllables of water whisper:

The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait

In the dark room; and in your heart I find

One silver raindrop,—on a hawthorn leaf,—

Orion in a cobweb, and the World.

XXVII.

cul de sac

On this dark and pluvious evening,

I drew the curtain back,

to peer from my window discretely,

Looking down upon a dreary cul de sac.

Black lamps line granite streets, so neatly;

Seemingly intended for illumination,

but in reality, contributes to the bleak,

as it feeds the weak and desolation.

The rain showers are incessant, unending;

People move slowly and with hesitation.

They are dressed in black and grey,

I watch them pause and delay; as if in sedation.

With indifference, they survey each step,

casting a black silhouette, over wet walkways.

The outdoor conditions have worsened,

As I close the tatted lace curtain,

to inspect the room herein.

On the table of teak, lie confections sweet,

with roses and grapes nestled on a silver tray;

and the wine is chilling in a crystal vessel,

Intended for a party of two.

Yet, the door knocker has not knocked;

and the clocks have not stopped,

As I wait in vain for you.

The candles upon the mantle have receded;

my expectations have been defeated,

and the temperature has fallen from red to blue.

Instantly, the fruit upon the table appears decayed,

and I feel deflated and betrayed.

In profound disgust, the candle is snuffed;

and, like the weather external,

where clouds are black and nocturnal;

I am eclipsed of hope and illumination,

and in my wretched imagination,

I wear the eternal disguise of rain.


© Original poetry by Denise Goodwin, Lady Denyse and moonspyre.blogspot.com; 
All rights reserved.

XXV.

"It was a dark and stormy night..."

These famous words are the opening line from the first paragraph of the 1830 English novel entitled, Paul Clifford by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The novel tells the life of Paul Clifford, a man who leads a dual life as both a criminal and an well-to-do gentleman.

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

In actuality, the very first paragraph of the novel are NOT those exact words, but are the third stanza from a poem, written by George Crabbe, called The Parish Workhouse.   Crabbe was one the earliest of English realistic poets, called the "poet of the poor." In this case, Edward Bulwer-Lytton uses the third stanza of Crabbe's poem, after which he begins the famous line, "It was a dark and stormy night....":

"Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes,

Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;

Who press the downy couch while slaves advance

With timid eye, to read the distant glance;

Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease,

To name the nameless ever-new disease;

Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,

Which real pain and that alone can cure:

How would ye bear in real pain to lie,

Despised, neglected, left alone to die?

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath

Where all that’s wretched paves the way for death?"

Much debate still rages on as to whether Edward Bulwer-Lytton was a literary genius or simply a mediocre novelist.  Bulwer-Lytton's great-great-great grandson, defended his ancestor, stating that the writer is believed,

"to have been the first person to have penned a cliché was a mark of genius". He said that Bulwer-Lytton invented a raft of sayings we still use today, including "the pen is mightier than the sword", "the great unwashed" and "the almighty dollar"." - theguardian.com

Bulwer-Lytton also wrote the following novels:

Eugene Aram (1832) 

Godolphin (1833) 

The Last Days of Pompeii (1834) 

Leila: or The Siege of Granada (1838) 

Zanoni (1842) 

The Last of the Barons (1843) 

The Caxtons (1849) 

Vril (1871)

And, let us never forget Snoopy's parody....

..."and suddenly, a shot rang out!"

Here is the full first paragraph of Paul Clifford:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Through one of the obscurest quarters of London, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen of the police, a man, evidently of the lowest orders, was wending his solitary way. He stopped twice or thrice at different shops and houses of a description correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were situated, and tended inquiry for some article or another which did not seem easily to be met with. All the answers he received were couched in the negative; and as he turned from each door he muttered to himself, in no very elegant phraseology, his disappointment and discontent. At length, at one house, the landlord, a sturdy butcher, after rendering the same reply the inquirer had hitherto received, added, "But if this vill do as vell, Dummie, it is quite at your sarvice!" Pausing reflectively for a moment, Dummie responded that he thought the thing proffered might do as well; and thrusting it into his ample pocket, he strode away with as rapid a motion as the wind and the rain would allow. He soon came to a nest of low and dingy buildings, at the entrance to which, in half-effaced characters, was written "Thames Court." Halting at the most conspicuous of these buildings, an inn or alehouse, through the half-closed windows of which blazed out in ruddy comfort the beams of the hospitable hearth, he knocked hastily at the door. He was admitted by a lady of a certain age, and endowed with a comely rotundity of face and person."

Denise Goodwin 8/22/15

XIII.

STILL FALLS THE RAIN
Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell, 1940


Still falls the Rain---
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss---
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet

On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us---
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain---
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,---those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear---
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh... the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain---
Then--- O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune---
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,---dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain---
"Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee."

Dame Edith Sitwell was known for delivering dramatics, the most notable of which might be her practice of lying in an open coffin to prep for writing. -mentalfloss

Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell DBE (7 September 1887 – 9 December 1964) was a British poet and critic and the eldest of the three literary Sitwells.

Like her brothers Osbert and Sacheverell, Edith reacted badly to her eccentric, unloving parents, and lived for much of her life with her governess. She never married, but became passionately attached to the homosexual Russian painter Pavel Tchelitchew, and her home was always open to London's poetic circle, to whom she was unfailingly generous and helpful.