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THE RAIN.

I hear leaves drinking rain.i hear rich leaves on top giving the poor beneath drop after drop.tis a sweet noise to hear these green leaves drinking near.and when the sun comes out. After this rain shall stop,wondrous light will fill each dark,round drop.i hope the sun shines bright. It will be a lovely sight. About the poet W.H.Davies is an English poet who was born in 1871 at Wales and died in 1940.he left school at a young age,and lived for a number of years as peddler and bigger in USA expence.it won the hardships of the poor.

Mijaz_Mijazawan · Historia
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NIGHT MAIL

This is the night mail crossing the border,

Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich letters for the poor,

The shop at the corner,the girl next door.

Pulling up beattock,a steady climb.

The gradients against her,but she's on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder,

Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily,she passes

Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,

Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheepdogs cannot turn her Course.

They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes; no one wakes,

But a jug in bedroom gently shakes.

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