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."

Now you have freely given me leave to love,
                What will you doe?
        Shall I your mirth, or passion move,
                When I begin to wooe;
Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too?

Each petty beauty can disdain, and I,
                Spight of your hate,
        Without your leave can see, and dye,
                Dispence a nobler Fate,
Tis easie to destroy, you may create.

Then give me leave to love, and love me too
                Not with designe
        To rayse, as Loves curst Rebels doe,
                When puling Poets whine,
Fame to their beauty, from their blubbr’d eyn.

Grief is a puddle, and reflects not clear
                Your beauties rayes;
        Joyes are pure streames, your eyes appear
                Sullen in sadder layes,
In cheerfull numbers they shine bright with prayse.

Which shall not mention, to express you fayr,
                Wounds, flames, and darts,
        Storms in your brow, nets in your hair,
                Suborning all your parts,
Or to betray, or torture captive hearts.

I’le make your eyes like morning Suns appear,
                As mild, and fair;
        Your brow as Crystal smooth, and clear,
                And your dishevell’d hayr
Shall flow like a calm Region of the Ayr.

Rich Nature’s store, (which is the Poet’s Treasure)
                I’le spend, to dress
        Your beauties, if your mine of Pleasure
                In equall thankfulness
You but unlock, so we each other bless.

I walk in a broken existence
Through an unbroken field

So many dark faces
Yet I'm the only one who is clouded

Hope streames through
Yet my soul captures none

I am hopelessly lost
Waiting to be found