The rain gullies the garden paths br And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. br A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. br Even so, I can see that it has red berries, br A scarlet fruit, br Filmed over with moisture. br It seems as though the rain, br Dripping from it, br Should be tinged with colour. br I desire the berries, br But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. br Probably, too, they are bitter.