"Wet Weather." by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay (1875-1928)
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.