The rain is making rings on the river,
And the dead leaves in the black trees shiver;
The desolate sparrows under the shed
Are dreaming of summer and crumbs of bread.
Thin, dirty children play in the gutter;
A row of rogues by the wall-side utter
Their daily curses, and "watch for a job,"
And know they have something to earn or rob.
O the rain, the rain, in cold winter-time!
And the bitter bread that is bought by crime!
The fog and the frost from morning till night,
And no coal to burn or candle to light!
It is coming, coming: summer is dead;
The comfortless clouds are thick over head;
And snow will soon come to whiten the moor,
And the poor will remember that they are poor.
