is quieter than first it was.
Not always so. Remember how
it rattled hard, as cruelty does:
the first men shivered, wet and cold,
beneath the drops that fell like lead,
it chilled the sick. It took the old.
We wakened, warm and dry in bed.
The covers warm and drawn around.
You held me close, and then you said,
the water on the roof. That sound.
The quiet spatter was a song.
It made us happy, for we knew
we'd never have to brave it long,
as long-dead strugglers had to do.
One seeing us would not be content
to see our lot, and curse his fate.
His sodden heart, too cold, and bent:
he would have killed us both, for hate.