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.
--Edith Sitwell, Still Falls the Rain
To hear Dame Edith Sitwell read this poem, written during the London Blitz in 1940, click here.
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