A Traveler Who Loves the Rain

The follwing are two versions of the same poem. I begain the poem in an attempt to write a Villanelle, but then experimented with several shorter forms. The first is the original, and the second is the best of the shortened versions:

Don’t ask that life be good to you, or free from pain,
Lest you, betrayed, should stumble on the slip’ry ground,
And fall, a bloodied traveler who hates the rain.

And rising, do not shake your fist aloft, in vain:
The sky is brooding, dark, and ever without sound;
This life will not be easy, or lived free from pain.

The blood and dirt mix on your coat, a spreading stain,
And drip (a sting, each drop) from fingers to the ground,
From you, a weary traveler who hates the rain.

The water’s running down your arm in little veins,
And washes down your coat and cleans your dirty wound;
Don’t ask that life be always kind, without this pain.

But readjust your pack: you are hurt, not slain,
Stand fast, and take a footing on this muddy mound,
You silent, brooding traveler beneath the rain.

Look down this gritty road, this black and muddy lane;
A way was made for you until you’re homeward bound:
“Don’t ask that life be kind to you, or free from pain,
But learn to be a traveler who loves the rain.”

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I asked that life be good to me, and free from pain,
And I, betrayed, soon stumble on the slip’ry ground;
And rising, then, I shook my fist aloft, in vain;
The sky was brooding, dark, and ever without sound.

The blood and dirt mixed on my shirt, a gritty stain,
And dripped (a sting, each drop) from fingers to the ground;
The rain ran down my wounded arm in little veins,
Until, through all the darkness, came a voice, a sound:

“Now readjust your pack: you are hurt, not slain,
Stand fast, and take a footing on this muddy mound,
Don’t ask that life be kind to you, or free from pain;
A way was made for you until you’re homeward bound.”

Broken (Meditations, I)

This thing I ask of my Lord:
That when my soul becomes lofty, I receive tears,
And that my arrogant heart will be scorched with truth.
Then I may dwell at the side of God,
And my soul will be lifted up.

As the proud heart which stands in grace,
So is the soldier who sleeps in battle;
When his enemy comes, he will be surrounded,
He will lay down his rifle in the face of his foe.
Only in prison will he learn to be watchful,
And he will find humility through pain.