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

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

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.