"Rain has come" arrives like news called from room to room. Nothing more needs saying, and what follows is a poem about someone standing on the wrong side of a door while the whole world celebrates. Its central idea is that rain does more than wet the ground. It makes the line between "in and out" feel unbearable, and the speaker's only wish is to cross it.
The three stanzas trace that wish as it grows. In the first, the speaker is still only looking: "The curtains of clouds is swinging outside." The metaphor is quietly clever. Calling clouds curtains lends the sky the furniture of a house, so the border between indoors and outdoors is already blurring before anyone has moved. The request that follows is plain: "Open the door between in and out." The door is defined by what it separates, a "between" more than an object, and that makes it feel less like wood than like a rule.
In the second stanza sight gives way to sound, and the trees begin to speak. "Chocked voice trees" most likely means "choked", a voice thick with feeling, or perhaps one held back until now. Either reading suits a poem in which rain is a release. Then comes the line that carries the poem's sharpest idea: "Happy trees... who have no in or out." The ellipsis works as a small pause of envy. Trees are happy because they have no walls, and only the human is divided. The refrain "Open the door" returns, but now it has a reason. The trees' "delighted tones / Are calling me," and the request has turned into an answer to an invitation.
The third stanza widens the view. The winds are "busy" and "have now many works," as if rain were a public holiday on which everything in nature has errands to run. The slightly unidiomatic phrasing, "many works", gives the line an unpolished charm, and the English as printed has a directness that suits the subject. Clouds, trees and winds are then gathered into a small chorus that will "Raise joy from depth of earth." The direction of movement matters here. The poem began with clouds overhead, and now joy rises from underground, so the whole vertical space between soil and sky is filled. Everything is taking part except the speaker.
That is why the ending lands so softly. In the first stanza the speaker declared, "I shall go outside," with quiet confidence. By the last line it has become "Let me go...", and the statement of intent has turned into a plea, as though the door has still not opened. The trailing dots leave the speaker at the threshold, and we never see them step out. Judging by this shift, the voice could be a child's, someone who needs permission, though the poem never says so. It may also be anyone who has felt held back from something they badly want to join.
The form supports this urgency. There is no rhyme and no regular metre. The lines are short, speech-like and uneven, ranging from the bare "Rain has come" to the stretched "Winds have now many works." Imperatives such as "Open," "Feel" and "Let me" push the poem forward, and the sparse punctuation, with ellipses where commas might be, makes it feel breathless, like someone talking while already reaching for the handle. Repetition does the work that rhyme might have done. "Rain has come" returns inside the third stanza, "Open the door" appears twice, and "in or out" echoes through the poem, so the central tension is never allowed to fade.
The poem's significance lies in its simplicity. It builds an entire argument about freedom, belonging and the walls we put between ourselves and nature from a single gesture, opening a door. It also asks readers a gentle question: how often do we stay behind glass while the world outside is calling?