Sharp drives the rain, sharp drives the endless rain.
The rain-winds wake and wander, lift and blow.
The slow smoke-wreaths of vapour to and fro,
Wave and unweave and gather and build again.
Over the far gray reaches of the plain,—
Grey miles on miles my passionate thought must go,—
I strain my sight, grown dim with gazing so,
Pressing my face against the streaming pane.

How the rain beats! Ah God! If love had power
To voice its utmost yearning, even tho’
Through time and bitter distance, not in vain,
Surely her heart would hear me at this hour,
Look through the years, and see! But would she know
The white face pressed against the streaming pane?