The Rain
ROBERT CREELEY
All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quite, persistent rain.
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it
that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me
something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.
Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out
of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.
**I know that I have posted this poem several times already on my blog and all but, I feel obliged to post it again bcause I had some strange dream in which I had a sudden ephiphany of how increible this poem is. In the dream I vowed to make everyone I could aware and exposed to the immense beauty that Creeley emitted ever so subltely via it. So, keeping my word, I suppose, here you go
