It isn't raining rain to me, It's raining daffodils; In every dimpling drop I see Wildflowers on the hills. A cloud of gray engulfs the day And overwhelms 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, then, to the happy, A fig to him who frets; It isn't raining rain to me, It's raining violets. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE A POEM AGAINST THE WAR IN VIETNAM by HAYDEN CARRUTH FOR WALT WHITMAN by DAVID IGNATOW THE ORANGE PICKER by DAVID IGNATOW GLAMOUR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |