But we love the brown ones, and in we paddle, screaming,
Laughing, while the soft mud oozes ’round our feet.
Trees shake their wet cloaks, and on us falls a shower;
We laugh the louder, as down the road we run.
See! there’s a cowslip, and here’s a fairies’ bower,
All made of violets, nodding to the sun.
Down in the East, where we still can hear the thunder,
Over the cloud bends a misty, shining Bow.
Right at the foot of it are hidden many wonders,
If we can get there before the colors go.