“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.”
“The Kindly Rain”
translated by W. J. B. Fletcher
THE kindly rain its proper season knows.
With gentle Spring aye born in fitting hour.
Along the Wind with cloaking Night it goes.
Enmoistening, fine, inaudible it flows.
The clouds the mountain paths in darkness hide.
And lonely bright the vessels’ lanterns glower.
Dawn shows how damp the blushing buds divide.
And flowers droop head-heavy in each bower.