I strolled upon the Brooklyn Bridge one day,
Beneath the storm;
None but a lad in rags upon the way
I saw;—there on a bench he lay
Heedless of form.
He seemingly was reading what the Shower
Was publishing upon the Bridge and down the Bay;
Yet he was writing, writing at this hour—
Writing in a careless sort of way.
Upon a pad he scribbled and as fast the rain
Retouched, effaced, corrected and revised.
Was he recording Nature’s solemn strain,
Or sketching choristers therein disguised?
Whatever it be, I found myself quite by his side;
My nod and smile he pocketed and wrote again;
“Read me your drizzling stuff,” I said, and he replied:
“I’ve written a check in payment for this shower of rain.”