Rain — you ticked the tin, you would not pour;
I kept the way. I passed the covered door.
And liked the wet. A war-song in my ear
Named me a chief. I was. I had no spear,
And did not need one. I was brass and wet,
A little chief the dripping had not met.
Then to the cloud: "If you will send the rest,
Send now." You wouldn't. I was unimpressed,
Which was a lie. I wanted you to pour.
I waited, fierce and cute, and asked no more.
Then came a harder measure in the song.
As when a kettle, ticking, thinks too long,
Then finds a voice, and fills the room with steam —
So you let go. I walked into the stream
You had been saving. I laughed. I almost wept.
I didn't. I was glad. The walk I kept.
I had you on my hair, my hands, my sleeve.
I was a warrior. I did not leave.
Rain — you ticked the tin, you would not pour —
You poured. I walked. I did not take the door.