The morning drips her dew for me, Noon spreads an opal canopy. Home-bound, the drifting cloud-crafts rest Where sunset ambers all the west ...
It is not raining to me,It's raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on distant hills.
The Dawn is a wild, fair woman, With sunrise in her hair; Look where she stands, with pleading hands, To lure me there.
