Edith Matilda Thomas (1854–1925)

THE MERCHANT clouds that cruise the sultry sky,

As soon as they have spent their freight of rain,

Plot how the cooling thrift they may regain:

All night along the river-marsh they lie,

And at their ghostly looms swift shuttles ply,

To weave them nets wherewith the streams to drain;

And often in the sea they cast a seine,

And draw it, dripping, past some headland high.

Many a slender naiad, with a sigh,

Is in their arms uptaken from the plain;

The trembling myrmidons of dew remain

No longer than the flash of morning’s eye,

Then back unto their misty fountains fly:

This is the source and journey of the rain.