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 gives us a storm told in two acts. First the sky rules everything, wind and rain roaring together while the earth beneath "gulps and gulps in choked endeavour vain," trying helplessly to drink in more than it can hold. Then, past midnight, the ground itself answers back: some underground source breaks open and a river bursts out, loud enough to drown the very rain and wind that fed it. That image of the earth "bellowing like a giant bathing in mighty mirth" is the poem's best surprise — after quiet struggle, a huge, almost comic triumph.
The music is plain and muscular, short lines snapping against longer ones, mimicking the storm's push and release. What keeps it fresh is the idea underneath: patience outlasting pressure, the quiet thing eventually having the loudest voice. Anyone who's felt overwhelmed before finally breaking through will recognize that shape.
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