Oh, Gray And Tender Is The Rain

Oh, gray and tender is the rain,

That drips, drips on the pane!

A hundred things come in the door,

The scent of herbs, the thought of yore.

I see the pool out in the grass,

A bit of broken glass;

The red flags running wet and straight,

Down to the little flapping gate.

Lombardy poplars tall and three,

Across the road I see;

There is no loveliness so plain

As a tall poplar in the rain.

But oh, the hundred things and more,

That come in at the door! —

The smack of mint, old joy, old pain,

Caught in the gray and tender rain.