It Rains
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T rains, and nothing stirs within the fenceAnywhere through the orchard's untrodden, denseForest of parsley. The great diamondsOf rain on the grassblades there is none to break,Or the fallen petals further down to shake. And I am nearly as happy as possibleTo search the wilderness in vain though well,To think of two walking, kissing there,Drenched, yet forgetting the kisses of the rain:Sad, too, to think that never, never again, Unless alone, so happy shall I walkIn the rain. When I turn away, on its fine stalkTwilight has fined to naught, the parsley flowerFigures, suspended still and ghostly white,The past hovering as it revisits the light.
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