SPRING RAIN.
It isn’t raining rain to me, It’s raining daffodils; In every dimpled drop I see Wild flowers on the hills, The clouds of grey engulf the day And overwhelm 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 biooia, Where any buccaneering bee May find a bed and room. A health unfo the happy, A fig for him who frets; It isn’t raining rain to me, It’s raining violets. —Robert Lovenan.
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/ESD19081107.2.15
Bibliographic details
Evening Star, Issue 13102, 7 November 1908, Page 3
Word Count
86SPRING RAIN. Evening Star, Issue 13102, 7 November 1908, Page 3
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