Bouts-Rimés Sonnets VII.

And is this August weather?  Nay, not so.
With the long rain the cornfield waxeth dark.
How the cold rain comes pouring down ! and hark
To the chill wind whose measured pace and slow
Seems still to linger, being loth to go.
I cannot stand beside the sea and mark
Its grandeur—it's too wet for that : no lark
In this drear season cares to sing or show.
And, since its name is August, all men find
Fire not allowable; winter foregone
Had more of sunlight and of glad warmth more.
I shall be fain to run upon the shore
And mark the rain.   Hath the sun ever shone?
Cheer up! there can be nothing worse to mind.