Met by the delighted cackle of a neighbor’s babe.
Come Inside…Come Inside…Come Inside—
There’s no shelter ‘neath that old lawn astrolabe.
O, the fantastic turns of waves of rain,
While its grumble of thunder shakes our lives.
Hurry Home…Hurry Home…Hurry Home—
To your children, and husbands, and wives.
The trees bend and lift,
To catch every little thrown drop of rain.
Shut the Door…Shut the Door…Shut the door—
Before we soak the atrium again.
Yet the gutters riot run full still.
Ca Caw…Ca Caw…Ca Caw—
Calls from the elm at the top of the hill.