A Wet Spell

One star; the dusk; a scrap of rain. A little sad, alone, Out of the wet old gardens blown, The scent of mint pricks at the pane. And market carts go by, Into a large, soft sky, Of grey, of ochre, too; Dully they go their way, Past file of houses rainy grey, A file of blue. One spout is quick and sweet, One broken and high ; Their poignancies fill all the country street- The ache of old regret, Down the thin wet — Into the large, soft sky, The market carts drip by.