by Amy Lowell
All night our room was outer-walled with rain.
Drops fell and flattened on the tin roof,
And rang like little disks of metal.
Ping!– Ping!– and there was not a pinpoint of silence between them.
The rain rattled and clashed,
And the slats of the shutters danced and glittered.
But to me the darkness was red-gold and crocus-coloured
With your brightness,
And the words you whispered to me
Sprang up and flamed– orange torches against the rain.
Torches against the wall of cool, silver rain!
So, I really like this poem. I don’t know exactly why. I just identify with it. For some random reason.