Our lonely hearts under this weather;
Though you round nice in that black belt,
Content to endure the calm rain drops
Leaving desolate the woody house alone.
The soft falling of the pattering rain,
The thin sivery-drops bring not rest,
The usual ovation that comes is silent
Fail`d by certain restlessness of lone thought.
Yet now your maternal instincts soaring;
Impelled by motherly love you have left
The cold rain and went in to caress gently
Your little oblivious suns weary of cold.
Yet still I`m here in perfect solitude;
Under the leaden sky objectionable weather,
The rain is hollow almost in glance invisible
And a locked sight within is banal straight.
The mirthful ovation of a commencing year;
Trailed by mundane resolutions at myriad,
Has a little transposed with evocations cleared
Not by pounding reality but cold souls in brusque.
Our lonely hearts under this weather;
Though you round nice in that black belt,
Mine`s lack the content that runs in yours
And yours lack the solitude that runs in mine.
