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Loneliness loves showers,
as sorrow loves sad hours.
The drops of rain are many,
a merry making crowd;
they fall and prance, and sing
the oldest song, aloud.
The gloomy ladies glide
gracefully from the eyes,
and many a handsome frowns
behold with wanting air
their glowing, glassy charm,
their blue fanciful flare.
Beholders emulate
the turns and pirouettes,
confusing art and soul,
they think of happiness.
And grimaces begin
to be gone with the rain.
Thanks for reading poems.