It was on my way home that the rain came-
Drizzling its ways down out of the gloomy skies
Like the grey tears of some sorrowful cloud,
Who, overburdened with life,
Was inclined to beg a mortal for some sympathy.
Much better men that I would have stopped
To moan about wet stockings and muddy shoes.
But I-
Though well-versed in the ways of this world-
Must needs pause,
And hear the sighing of the breezes.
Enthralled by the beauty of the rain-
The silver droplets shining on the leaves,
Like so many brilliant chandeliers,
The honeysuckle blossoms,
Peeping their pale heads out for a drink,
Sir Robin singing proudly from his lofty perch,
Seated calmly on a swaying branch,
And the feathered ferns,
Content to wave hello from their bed in the grasses.
For a moment, we all paused-
Whether man, or tree, or feathered beast,
And listened to the woes of the overcast Upperworlds.
But I could not stay, of course-
Though enchanted with the tale told me,
A long path yet stretched before me.
And so, with a nod to Nature, I continued on my way.
But yet, when I am still once more,
I hear the music of the rain.