It Rains

4 0 00

It Rains

It rains, and nothing stirs within the fence

Anywhere through the orchard’s untrodden, dense

Forest of parsley. The great diamonds

Of rain on the grass-blades there is none to break,

Or the fallen petals further down to shake.

And I am nearly as happy as possible

To search the wilderness in vain though well,

To think of two walking, kissing there,

Drenched, yet forgetting the kisses of the rain:

Sad, too, to think that never, never again,

Unless alone, so happy shall I walk

In the rain. When I turn away, on its fine stalk

Twilight has fined to naught, the parsley flower

Figures, suspended still and ghostly white,

The past hovering as it revisits the light.