"Oh, gray and tender is the rain,
That drips, drips on the pane;
A hundred things come in at the door,
The scent of herbs, the thought of yore.
"I see the pool out in the grass,
A bit of broken glass;
The red flags running wet and straight,
Down to the little flapping gate.
"Lombardy poplars tall and three,
Across the road I see.
There is no loveliness so plain,
As a tall poplar in the rain.
"But oh, the hundred things and more
That come in at the door;
The smack of mint, old joy, old pain,
Caught in the gray and tender rain."
With all due respect, I thought afterwards what a pity to become an American poetess if she has to begin her poem with "Oh, gray and tender is the rain"—such a commonplace beginning. I declared bluntly that I, "as a Japanese poet," would sacrifice the first three stanzas to make the last sparkle fully and unique like a perfect diamond. Explanation is forbidden in the House of Poesy for Japanese, where, as in the Japanese tea-house of four mats and a half, the Abode of Imagination, only the hints tender and gray, like a ghost or Miss Reese's rain, are suffered to be dwelling. Although of this American poetess it is said that her rejection of inessentials is tho secret of her personality and style, it seems that that rejection is not sufficient for
