This is my weather-cape,
Haar, drizzle, mizzle-rain,
This is the reason
I crave the seasons
From Autumn through
To March again.
But though these isobars enliven
And my nerve ends are untightened,
As ferns befriend
Merest shaft and bend
Through forest canopies of light,
The ninety-four dialects
For coastal rains are choral sadnesses
In parachute refrains;
The front of the weathers I love
Is the end which keeps you at bay.