Ellyat woke from a nightmare and put out his hand To touch the wall by his bed, but there was no wall. Then he listened for Bailey’s snoring. And he heard The gorged, sweet pouring of water through infinite boughs, The hiss of the big spilt drop on the beaten leaf, The bird-voiced and innumerable rain, A wet quail piping, a thousand soaked black flutes Building a lonely castle of sliding tears, Strange and half-cruel as a dryad’s bright grief.