Today I am reading a poem about rain in the garden by J. Redwood Anderson (1883-1964).
Tenderly, gently, the soft rain, dripping
With a hushed shimmer of sound,
Fell from leaf to leaf, and ran slipping
Down wet tree trunks to the ground.
There was no grief in the garden, only the falling
Of the soft continual rain, and the swishing
Of soft leaves aloft---now and then the calling
Of a little wind like a ghost's vain wishing.
Tenderly, gently the soft rain collected
In small pools by the flower borders and garden ways
Pools that like pale oval mirrors reflected
The faint image of the sky's pale face.
Tenderly, gently, the soft rain filled up
The dry lips of the narcissus, thirsty with desire
And lay cold on the tulip's red cup
Like tears imprisoned in a heart of fire.
And the night came nearer and the West went black
With no brooch of stars on her cloak of ebony:
And the small ovals of the pools gave back
Only a tangle of dark leaves against a dark sky.
And tenderly, gently, the soft, continual rain
Fell on the garden; and the sigh and mutter of light
Grasses and leaves in the wind, and the quiet rush of rain
The continual rain, were the only sounds of the night.
This is Moya Andrews, and today we focused on rain in the garden.
