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A Child's Own Book of Verse II by  Ada M. Skinner


 

 

APRIL 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 gray 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 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.

—ROBERT LOVEMAN.


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