SPRING RAIN IN LONDON
Hardly awake, I saw in the street
The shining raindrops pelt;
And lulled by their quick monotonous beat
I let my languid eyes half close. I felt
The tinkle of a rivulet
Bubbling lazily down a hill,
Where the turf was a couch for dark violet
And flame-eyed tormentil.
I saw the sun leaping through a cloud—
Apollo shooting at the bladed corn—
And the lark, a dizzy fanatic, hailing loud
The golden god reborn.