With all its little silver feet
The rain is running down the street
Leaving its dimpling tracks behind
Like children of the faery kind,
Or like the souls of infants, dead
Before their mothers left the bed
(As pagan theologians tell
Or ever the Fathers thought of hell)—
To whom none of life's ill has been,
Whole as a raindrop, and as clean,
Running with singing back to God…

So down the fields, so down the street
Went all the rain with pattering feet,
So down the world the raindrops trod.
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