On Rainy Days

What though the rain weeps down the pane,
And all the streets are muddy gray,
And cycling hopes are worse than vain
This wet, unhallowed, dismal day —
Still shall my soul know joy and peace,
And sweet delight shall thrill my heart,
As, armed with rags and wrench and grease,
I take my bicycle apart.

One half the pleasure, I opine,
Which focuses upon a wheel
Is that ecstatic and divine
Enjoyment I am wont to feel
When I remove the nuts, or screw
The saddle off, or loose the chain,
Or pull the inner tube to view,
And try to put it back again.

I love to tinker with the forks —
To readjust the mud-guard strips —
To cut deft patches out of corks,
Wherewith to mend the handle-grips;
I take the bearings out, and clean
Them with a piece of an old sack,
And I am happy and serene
Until I seek to put them back.

Oh, rainy days do fill my heart
With rapture which I deem sublime,
For then I take my bike apart,
Just as I did the other time;
I file and rub and twist and chop,
And wrench and pull and paint and scrape,
And next day take it to the shop,
And have it put back into shape.
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