It isn’t raining rain to me,
It’s raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the hill.
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 bloom,
Where any a buccaneering bee
May find a bed and room.
A health unto the happy
A fig for him who frets.
It isn’t raining rain to me,
It’s raining violets.

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Verses [by Robert Loveman] [1920]
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