Dim
Is the rain
(In sheets, in streaks, in scratches, it comes)
Dull
Is the train
(Of thought, of thickness, of thread, it goes)
Dead
Is the day
(With rolls, with rifts, with ripples, it comes)
Dank
Is the fray
(When calm, when coiled, when crooked, it goes
all along the candied edge
of life)
