Poetry is partly sympathy, don't you think? If it's any good, it gets people to think about others' points of view.

When you go, if you go, And I should want to die, there's nothing I'd be saved by more than the time you fell asleep in my arms in a trust so gentle I let the darkening room drink up the evening, till rest, or the new rain lightly roused you awake. I asked if you heard the rain in your dream and half dreaming still you only said, I love you.

Kiss me with rain on your eyelashes, come on, let us sway together, under the trees, and to hell with thunder.