The Rainy Day by James W. Whilt

The hills are smothered in a fog,
The sky is somber-grey,
The rain is coming in a mist,
A cheerless rainy day.
To me the trees are weeping,
With their branches drooping low,
Their tears are steady falling,
With heavy drops, yet slow.
The birds they all are silent,
And not one sweet silvery note,
Re-echoes through the forest,
From our feathered songster’s throat.
Not one thing to break the silence,
Save the rain-drops as they fall,
As I watch the clouds roll onward,
Or climb the mountain wall.
And somehow I feel so happy,
Though the world seems full of pain,
So I let my gaze go farther,
When the sun will shine again.
The trees and flowers and grasses,
They will all the fresher seem,
And the laughter will be louder
From the rippling mountain stream.
The birds will sing far sweeter
Than they did in days gone by,
The air will be the fresher,
And of bluer tint the sky.
We all do love the sunshine,
We love the moonlight, too,
We also love the twilight,
And the falling of the dew;
But I never growl or grumble,
Only this I wish to say;—
That this world would be a desert
Without you, oh! Rainy Day!