the soft, sullen grey of the light
too soon and too heavily subsides
to darken this tangle of trusted, old-fangled decay
this england of mumbling men
of good old us-and-them
wears mud as her gown from the tweed to the frown of mounts bay

and god knows this blessed plot
won't shine like his crucible pot

so how sad but how sweet
to find i still need this rain on my shoes

the memory is burned on my skin
of the california day easing in
where untroubled smiles tell of boundless miles of sun
as lightly as harmony rings
so faith can wear gossamer wings
but tug at old glory and pro patria mori they'll run

and none envies them more
than we short-lost cousins-in-law

so how strange if how sweet
to find i still need this rain on my shoes

like twins these worlds collide
their hearts invisibly tied
the new and the old each a part of a whole and yet two
give me the nerve, give me a reason to choose
show me i'll gain something more than i'll lose
though in the end what can a friend say but ‘to thine own self be true’?

seek gold in the mud if you will
but i dream of america still

so how hard if how sweet
to find i still need this rain on my shoes