Let's not pin down WHY I've cherished rain and somber oboe concertos, shall we?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCV)
There are ne puddles, just that drooling trail Left by the gutter's mouth as I look hence For any small detail to augur thence E'en half a note of whither in this pale Eye of forgotten dawn, moist on that scale With fragile rain. Naught quivers in suspense, No, not my soul now either. All fr'intents Is quite foresworn as I feign what, t'avail? If nonchalance is pretty, let's bestir It to cavort across the stage anew. I'd feign lose me to rain's soft calm as twere, Yea, fly away upon those wings we knew By instinct, though we could not see them, poor As saying. No sparrow calls, and what would woo?