A sombre, sagging sky 
Of tossed and tumbled wrack 
And ragged clouds, that lie 
To meet the wind's attack, 
Or march in columns black 
And serried ; then a still, 
A feverish kind of thrill ; 
And whispering in the leaves, 
And pattering on the pane, 
It falls in very sheaves, 
The weary, dreary rain.

The summer seems to sigh 
As she were flouted back. 
The grasses rot and die, 
The corn begins to crack. 
The flowers would like to pack, 
It 's all so dank and chill, 
Discomfortable and shrill : 
While, flickering from the eaves 
And gurgling down the drain, 
The sodden world receives 
The weary, dreary rain. 

The big trees, broad and high, 
Grow thick and blurred and slack. 
The birds, too dull to fly, 
Brood dismal, and the track 
Shines. If a sudden quack 
Sound from the ducks that swill, 
The damp hush takes it ill. 
But ever and on it weaves 
Its rhythms with might and main, 
And all its will achieves, 
The weary, dreary rain.