There is rain on the window and rain on the door,
The garden is swimming in yellows and greens;
Whoever comes in leaves wet trails on the floor,
And we at the table are painting bright scenes.
The rain in the chimney hisses and spits,
The fire is made up and it struggles and roars,
A giant that shivers in spasms and fits
For it wants to go raging about out-of-doors.
But we draw, and we paint, and we lick clean the brush,
And perhaps comes a neighbour to drink tea and yarn;
If outside in the tumult there comes a small hush,
And the rain eases off, then we make for the barn.
Let them sit by the fire and talk till they doze:
In the barn we have room for many a fling;
The rain drums the roof, and – why, nobody knows –
We stamp on the floor, and we shout, and we sing.