Oh, gray and tender is the rain, That drips, drips on the pane! A hundred things come in the door, The scent of herbs, the thought of yore. I see the pool out in the grass, A bit of broken glass; The red flags running wet and straight, Down to the little flapping gate. Lombardy poplars tall and three, Across the road I see; There is no loveliness so plain As a tall poplar in the rain. But oh, the hundred things and more, That come in at the door! -- The smack of mint, old joy, old pain, Caught in the gray and tender rain. Lizette Woodworth Reese