The spattering of the rain upon pale terraces
Of afternoon is like the passing of a dream
Amid the roses shuddering‘ gainst the wet green stalks
Of the streaming trees — the passing of the wind
Upon the pale lower terraces of my dream
Is like the crinkling of the wet grey robes
Of the hours that come to turn over the urn
Of the day and spill its rainy dream.
Vague movement over the puddled terraces:
Heavy gold pennons — a pomp of solemn gardens
Half hidden under the liquid veil of spring:
Far trumpets like a vague rout of faded roses
Burst‘ gainst the wet green silence of distant forests:
A clash of cymbals — then the swift swaying footsteps
Of the wind that undulates along the languid terraces.
Pools of rain — the vacant terraces
Wet, chill and glistening
Towards the sunset beyond the broken doors of to-day.