It Was All for Him

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.”