Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wildest rain, Across the empty, blackened fields, Like the pulse of life flows, knowing not its way, Yet deep and lonely in its course, Still the hawk gliding above, Sees all of this — the rain and wind, Bleeding neath the blackened folds of cloth, And through the darkened trees of starlight.

Ah, how soft the shroud of night! How sweet the sorrow of its kiss!

• Dylan Thomas