Wet Weather

IT is the English in me that loves the soft, wet weather —

The cloud upon the mountain, the mist upon the sea,

The sea-gull flying low and near with rain upon each feather,

The scent of deep, green woodlands where the buds are breaking free.

A world all hot with sunshine, with a hot, white sky above it —

Oh then I feel an alien in a land I'd call my own;

The rain is like a friend's caress, I lean to it and love it,

‘ Tis like a finger on a nerve that thrills for it alone!

Is it the secret kinship which each new life is given

To link it by an age-long chain to those whose lives are through,

That wheresoever he may go, by fate or fancy driven,

The home-star rises in his heart to keep the compass true?

Ah,‘ tis the English in me that loves the soft, gray weather —

The little mists that trail along like bits of wind-flung foam,

The primrose and the violet — all wet and sweet together,

And the sound of water calling, as it used to call at home.