Out the inn room’s windowpane

is rain and rain and yet more rain.

I write by guttering candleflame

(to rain and rain and yet more rain)

sore with walking, stiff with pains

with me, myself, and I to blame.

I’m seeking tales, adventure, fame

a life that is but mine to claim

I find instead rain (and yet more rain)

My stocking drip onto the floor,

my pants quite as damp as before.

If I could but one thing implore

I’d beg my neighbors not to snore.

To snuff my candle feels a chore.

Can I endure all this and more?

For days three hundred sixty four?

There is a creak upon the stair

there is a leaf within my hair

a growling laugh from down below

feet that patter to and fro

the knot lodged deep begins to grow

the clock keeps ticking, swift and slow

until the rain may turn to snow

lightning cracks and wind may blow

and so much which I do not know

and so much that all others crow

and tears and soup and river flow.

The world is vast and deep and dark.

I flicker, mutter, sputter, spark.

Shiversob until the dawn.

I will go on. I will go on.

Cut short sorrow with a yawn.

I must go on. I must go on.

Watching out the windowpane

(Still rain and rain and yet more rain)

I shan’t blow out my candleflame.

All worth doing risks such pains.

With me, myself, and I to blame.

Songs of noble deeds and fame

must be paid a price to claim.

A price of rain

(and yet more rain).

— Millie Florence