A Rainy Day

The beauty of this rainy day, All silver-green and dripping gray, Has stolen quite my heart away From all the tasks I meant to do, Made me forget the resolute blue And energetic gold of things . . . So soft a song the rain-bird sings. Yet am I glad to miss awhile The sun's huge domineering smile, The busy spaces mile on mile, Shut in behind this shimmering screen Of falling pearls and phantom green; As in a cloister walled with rain, Safe from intrusions, voices vain, And hurry of invading feet, Inviolate in my retreat: Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire-- So runs my rainy-day desire. Or I old letters may con o'er, And dream on faces seen no more, The buried treasure of the years, Too visionary now for tears; Open old cupboards and explore Sometimes, for an old sweetheart's sake, A delicate romantic ache, Sometimes a swifter pang of pain To read old tenderness again, As though the ink were scarce yet dry, And She still She and I still I. What if I were to write as though Her letter came an hour ago! An hour ago!--This post-mark says . . . But out upon these rainy days! Come tie the packet up again, The sun is back--enough of rain.