ALL day the air triumphs with its two voices Of wind and rain As loud as if in anger it rejoices, Drowning the sound of earth That gulps and gulps in choked endeavour vain To swallow the rain.
Half the night, too, only the wild air speaks With wind and rain, Till forth the dumb source of the river breaks And drowns the rain and wind, Bellows like a giant bathing in mighty mirth The triumph of earth.
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📖 About this poem
Edward Thomas builds this poem around a contest of voices — wind, rain, and finally the earth itself, each straining to out-shout the other. For most of the poem the sky seems to win, its noise "drowning" the ground below, which can only gulp helplessly at the downpour, unable to swallow what's given to it. Then, at night, something shifts: the hidden river underground finally breaks through, and the quiet, patient earth roars back louder than the storm, "bellowing like a giant bathing in mighty mirth." That reversal is the poem's real pleasure — the unseen, slow thing outlasting the loud, showy thing. Thomas's music matches the weather, choppy and insistent in the opening, opening out into something grander at the close. It still resonates because it's really about patience and hidden reserves — how quiet, gathering forces can answer noise on their own timetable, and win.
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