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It isn't raining rain to me, It's raining daffodils; In every dimpled drop I see Wild flowers on the hills. The clouds of gray engulf the day, And overwhelm the town; It isn't raining rain to me, It's raining roses down. It isn't raining rain to me, But fields of clover bloom, Where any buccaneering bee May find a bed and room. A health unto the happy, A fig for him who frets— It isn't raining rain to me, It's raining violets. |