Cry of the Monday River Gentle is the rain—outside, the distant thrumming The drumming of the warden on steel barres With his thunderclap and his err-appealing straps. I know nothing of my mind, oh Lord, But ah! Emotions leave me at the peril of nightmares, Tight mares, an influx of rushing blood, A derelict day I fought so much for, Never a musk-mite too soon. Pray thee mend, ah, Pray thee bend as must— The morning dew gives What the thunderous, liquid Knight takes away. Gentle is the rain—to soothe my pain in augmented cloves of clay. Matter not its breed of sinewy strength, Matters not, my mild, timid babe. These walls are counting on me.

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