Rain Pleasure .

One does not often see
A winter, rainswept tree
Hold out its twigs and thorns
To meet a storm. Its plea
Is that the rain adorns
It so. Hangs bladed boughs So heavily with drops
That wonder wakes and bows
From passing eyes. Breath stops
An instant at the show,
For there the raindrops grow
As if unbidden Spring
Had come, and from tiptoe,
Flung up a covering
Of flowers; each one spun
From rain glass, hanging there As if a diamond's fun
Had filled its shiny lair.
You growl, and others spite
The puddle's sweep; but sight
Of rainswept trees is gain,
I say, and sharp delight …
… I cry upon the rain—
“Come rain—again—again!”

—Francis Howard Harris.