The Beauty Of This Rainy Day, All Silver-Green And Dripping Gray, Has Stolen Quite My Heart Away From All The Tasks I Meant To Do, Made Me Forget The Resolute Blue And Energetic Gold Of Things . . . So Soft A Song The Rain-Bird Sings. Yet Am I Glad To Miss Awhile The Sun'S Huge Domineering Smile, The Busy Spaces Mile On Mile, Shut In Behind This Shimmering Screen Of Falling Pearls And Phantom Green; As In A Cloister Walled With Rain, Safe From Intrusions, Voices Vain, And Hurry Of Invading Feet, Inviolate In My Retreat: Myself, My Books, My Pipe, My Fire - So Runs My Rainy-Day Desire. Or I Old Letters May Con O'Er, And Dream On Faces Seen No More, The Buried Treasure Of The Years, Too Visionary Now For Tears; Open Old Cupboards And Explore Sometimes, For An Old Sweetheart'S Sake, A Delicate Romantic Ache, Sometimes A Swifter Pang Of Pain To Read Old Tenderness Again, As Though The Ink Were Scarce Yet Dry, And She Still She And I Still I. What If I Were To Write As Though Her Letter Came An Hour Ago! An Hour Ago! - This Post-Mark Says . . . But Out Upon These Rainy Days! Come Tie The Packet Up Again, The Sun Is Back - Enough Of Rain.