The Sundial on a Wet Day

   I drip, drip here
   In Atlantic rain,
   Falling like handfuls
   Of winnowed grain,
   Which, tear-like, down
   My gnomon drain,
   And dim my numerals
   With their stain,—
   Till I feel useless,
   And wrought in vain!

   And then I think
   In my despair
   That, though unseen,
   He is still up there,
   And may gaze out
   Anywhen, anywhere;
   Not to help clockmen
   Quiz and compare,
   But in kindness to let me
   My trade declare.
St Juliot