Classic Poem

Strange to see that usual dark road paven wet
With shallow dim reflecting rain pools looking
To north, where light all night stayed and dawn braving yet
Capella hung, above dark elms unshaking, no silence breaking.
And still to dawn night's ugliness owed no debt.
About eleven from the touch of the drear raining,
I had gone in to Shakespeare and my own writing,
Seen the lovely lamplight in golden shining,
And resolved to move no more till dawn made whitening
Between the shutter-chinks, or by the door-mat.
Yet here at five, an hour before day was alive . . .
Behold me walking to where great elm trees drip
Melancholy slow streams of rainwater, on the too wet
Traveller, to pass them, watching, and then return.
Writing Sonata or Quartett with a candle dip.