By Nora May French

The Rain was grey before it fell
        And through a world where light had died
There ran a mournful little wind
That shook the trees and cried.
The rain was brown upon the earth,
    In turbid stream and tiny seasó"
In swift and slender shafts that beat
    The flowers to their knees.
The rain is mirror to the sky,
    To leaning grass in image clear,
And drifting in the shining pools
    The clouds are white and near.