In just three short lines, this poem sets up a odd, funny picture: someone delivering a sermon to a yard while rain falls at night. The title, "Boilerplate," points to language that is standard and prewritten, the kind of text that gets copied over and over without much thought. So the sermon is "ready," already composed, not something fresh or personal.
The strangest phrase is "false Greek rain." Greek might suggest ancient, learned speech, but "false" hints that the rain's sound only imitates a language. It patters like words we almost understand but can't. The speaker seems to be listening to the rain and hearing it as a kind of nonsense scripture, or perhaps offering their own stock phrases back to it.
The mood is quiet, dry-humored, and a little lonely. The yard can't answer, and the rain doesn't mean what a sermon means. The poem leaves us wondering who is really speaking: the speaker, or the night itself.