The Thatch

Out alone in the winter rain, Intent on giving and taking pain. But never was I far out of sight Of a certain upper-window light. The light was what it was all about: I would not go in till the light went out; It would not go out till I came in. Well, we should see which one would win, We should see which one would be first to yield. The world was a black invisible field. The rain by rights was snow for cold. The wind was another layer of mould. But the strangest thing: in the thick old thatch, Where summer birds had been given hatch, Had fed in chorus, and lived to fledge, Some still were living in hermitage. And as I passed along the eaves, So low I brushed the straw with my sleeves, I flushed birds out of hole after hole, Into the darkness. It grieved my soul, It started a grief within a grief, To think their case was beyond relief-- They could not go flying about in search Of their nest again, nor find a perch. They must brood where they fell in mulch and mire, Trusting feathers and inward fire Till daylight made it safe for a flyer. My greater grief was by so much reduced As I thought of them without nest or roost. That was how that grief started to melt. They tell me the cottage where we dwelt, Its wind-torn thatch goes now unmended; Its life of hundreds of years has ended By letting the rain I knew outdoors In on to the upper chamber floors.