It isn’t raining to me,
It’s raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the Hill.
The clouds of gray engulf the day
And overwhelmed the town –
It isn’t raining rain to me,
It’s raining roses down.
It isn’t raining rain to me,
But fields of Clover Bloom
Where any buccaneering bee
May find a bed in room.
A health unto the happy,
A fig for him who frets –
It isn’t raining to me,
It’s raining violets.
