When I wake the rain's falling
and I think, as always, it's for the best,
I remember how much I love rain,
the weakest and strongest of us all;
as I listen to its yesses and no's,
I think how many men and women
would, if they could,
against all sense and nature,
tax the rain for its privileges;
make it pay for soaking our earth
and splashing all over our leaves;
pay for muddying our grass
and amusing itself with our roots.
Let rain be taxed, they say,
for riding on our rivers
and drenching our sleeves;
for loitering in our lakes
and reservoirs. Make rain pay its way.
Make it pay for lying full length
in the long straight sedate green waters
of our city canals,
and for working its way through processes
of dreamy complexity
until the too-long untaxed rain comes indoors
and touches our lips,
bringing assuagement - for rain comes
to slake all our thirsts, spurting
brusque and thrilling in hot needles,
showering on to anyone naked;
or balming our skins in the shape of scented baths.
Yes, there are many who'd like to tax the rain;
even now they whisper, it can be done, it must be done.