We sat at the window looking out,

And the rain came down like silken strings

That Swithin’s day.  Each gutter and spout

Babbled unchecked in the busy way

   Of witless things:

Nothing to read, nothing to see

Seemed in that room for her and me

   On Swithin’s day.

We were irked by the scene, by our own selves; yes,

For I did not know, nor did she infer

How much there was to read and guess

By her in me, and to see and crown

   By me in her.

Wasted were two souls in their prime,

And great was the waste, that July time

   When the rain came down.