It rains, it rains, From gutters and drains And gargoyles and gables: It drips from the tables That tell us the tolls upon grains, Oxen, asses, sheep, turkeys and fowls Set into the rain-soaked wall Of the old Town Hall. The mountains being so tall And forcing the town on the river, The market’s so small That, with the wet cobbles, dark arches and all, The owls (For in dark rainy weather the owls fly out Well before four), so the owls In the gloom Have too little room And brush by the saint on the fountain In veering about. The poor saint on the fountain! Supported by plaques of the giver To whom we’re beholden; His name was de Sales And his wife’s name von Mangel. He stands on a dragon On a ball, on a column Gazing up at the vines on the mountain: And his falchion is golden And his wings are all golden. He bears golden scales And in spite of the coils of his dragon, without hint of alarm or invective Looks up at the mists on the mountain. (Now what saint or archangel Stands winged on a dragon, Bearing golden scales and a broad bladed sword all golden? Alas, my knowledge Of all the saints of the college, Of all these glimmering, olden Sacred and misty stories Of angels and saints and old glories ... Is sadly defective.) The poor saint on the fountain ... On top of his column Gazes up sad and solemn. But is it towards the top of the mountain Where the spindrifty haze is That he gazes? Or is it into the casement Where the girl sits sewing? There’s no knowing. And from eight leaden pipes in the ball he stands on That has eight leaden and copper bands on, There gurgle and drain Eight driblets of water down into the basin. And he stands on his dragon And the girl sits sewing High, very high in her casement And before her are many geraniums in a parket All growing and blowing In box upon box From the gables right down to the basement With frescoes and carvings and paint ... The poor saint! It rains and it rains, In the market there isn’t an ox, And in all the emplacement For waggons there isn’t a waggon, Not a stall for a grape or a raisin, Not a soul in the market Save the saint on his dragon With the rain dribbling down in the basin, And the maiden that sews in the casement. They are still and alone, Mutterseelens alone, And the rain dribbles down from his heels and his crown, It’s grey as at dawn, And the owls, grey and fawn, Call from the little town hall With its arch in the wall, Where the fire-hooks are stored. From behind the flowers of her casement That’s all gay with the carvings and paint, The maiden gives a great yawn, But the poor saint— No doubt he’s as bored! Stands still on his column Uplifting his sword With never the ease of a yawn From wet dawn to wet dawn ... Ford Madox Hueffer
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