When the wild Indian rains hide the hilltops and the plains—
Teeming rain, steaming rain, blotting out the sky—
When the breakers leap and fall at the bidding of the squall,
Then I think me of England, of England in July.
I wander in my dreams by her meadows and her streams—
Olden streams, golden streams flowing towards the sea—
And I see their tiny billows as they lap against the willows,
And the red rose is blowing—Ah! ’tis there I would be.
* * *
But when Autumn with a sigh in December turns to die,
She’s a dark land, a stark land, grim and chill and grey.
When they lie the sodden leaves on the choking, dripping eaves
And the window panes are blurred, then ’tis well to go away!
Yes, ’tis well to go away where there’s sunshine all the day,
Where down from the hills blows the dry, crisp wind,
Where one hears the wild duck whirring and one sees the rushes
stirring
And the hog deer’s in the forests by the waterways of Sind!
* * *
Then she’ll come across the brine, dear lady love of mine
(Steamship, dreamship! bring her safe again!)
And the white clouds above, they will greet my ladylove,
And the blue skies will laugh as she speeds across the main.
And the great seas will roar on the gleaming Arab shore,
(White rocks, bright rocks smile at her from me!)
While the trade wind blows, just to fan her as she goes,
Till I see her kerchief waving, as I stand upon the quay.