And the beauty of the rain, not even love can find words to tell it. If it
left but one trace, the exquisite shifting sheen of pearls on the outer
side of the window glass, that alone one might watch for a day. In all
times it has been thought worthy of kings, of them who are royally rich,
to have garments sown thick in dainty lines and shapes with fine seed
pearls. Who ever saw any such embroidery which could compare with the
beauty of one pane of glass wrought on a single side with the shining
white transparent globulets of rain? They are millions; they crowd; they
blend; they become a silver stream; they glide slowly down, leaving
tiniest silver threads behind; they make of themselves a silver bank of
miniature sea at the bottom of the pane; and, while they do this, other
millions are set pearl-wise at the top, to crowd, blend, glide down in
their turn, and overflow the miniature sea. This is one pane, a few inches
square; and rooms have many windows of many panes. And looking past this
spectacle, out of our windows, how is it that we do not each rainy day
weep with pleasure at sight of the glistening show? Every green thing,
from tiniest grass-blade lying lowest, to highest waving tips of elms,
also set thick with the water-pearls; all tossing and catching, and
tossing and catching, in fairy game with the wind, and with the rain
itself, always losing, always gaining, changing shape and place and number
every moment, till the twinkling and shifting dazzle all eyes.
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