Rain on a Grave

Clouds spout upon her

Their waters amain

In ruthless disdain, –

Her who but lately

Had shivered with pain

As at touch of dishonour

If there had lit on her

So coldly, so straightly

Such arrows of rain:

One who to shelter

Her delicate head

Would quicken and quicken

Each tentative tread

If drops chanced to pelt her

That summertime spills

In dust-paven rills

When thunder-clouds thicken

And birds close their bills.