It comes at night from the dark realm,
and by day, from the vanished sky-
A thousand small emissaries
from the ever weeping eye,
Who holds us close and tender,
who distantly neglects,
who sits in sumptuous splendour,
and hell’s black gate erects.
It's in these muddled raindrops
his nature's manifest-
A feeble patter on the roof,
never quite at rest.
Beyond his demiurgic pomp,
perhaps he fears his Father,
who sees him on his violent romp
and beats the brute yet harder.
And his Father before him,
And his Father before that,
regressed into the morning,
Till the great sun dons his hat.
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