My sleep is disturb’d
by an unruly hound
who on normal nights slumbers
softly beneath my feet.
Yet tonight is different
as oranges differ from tomatoes.
That hound slumbers not
but wails, howls, tears at his kennel door!
He is not a friend of the wind
Nor do the soft rains offer him solace.
The poor hound finds terror in thunder
As if the world were crashing down upon him.
Yet still it rains,
steadily pouring down upon our heads
like a shower worthy of Tatiana’s court,
of which the bard so beautifully wrote.
To sleep once more,
that the immortal world might do its work
as the old stories tell,
whilst we mortals slumber away.