A soft day, thank God! A wind from the south With a honey’d mouth; A scent of drenching leaves, Briar and beech and lime, White elderflower and thyme, And the soaking grass smells sweet, Crushed by my two bare feet, While the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.
A soft day, thank God! The hills wear a shroud Of silver cloud; The web the spider weaves Is a glittering net; The woodland path is wet, And the soaking earth smells sweet Under my two bare feet, And the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the leaves. ~ Winifred M. Letts (1882-1972), English poet
…he sought the privacy of rain, the one time no one was likely to be out and he was left to the intimacy of drops touching every leaf and tree in the woods and the easy muttering of drip and runoff… ~Robert Morgan from “Working in the Rain”
There has been plenty of muttering, both private and public, over the past few days. And not all of it is from dripping and runoff into puddles. Anytime a holiday weekend gets rained out, plenty of people mutter too.
Rain is what makes this part of the world special, but like Camelot, most would prefer it never fall till after sundown. To them we live not in a more congenial spot than Camelot.
I may be an oddity, somewhat typical of northwest-born natives. I celebrate rain whenever it comes, before sundown or after sunrise, as I grew up working outside in the intimacy of a drenching shower, yet am always happy to have an excuse to stay indoors to be putterer more than mutterer.
He could not resist the long ritual, the companionship and freedom of falling weather, or even the cold drenching, the heavy soak and chill of clothes and sobbing of fingers and sacrifice of shoes that earned a baking by the fire and washed fatigue after the wandering and loneliness in the country of rain. ~Robert Morgan, conclusion of “Working in the Rain”