Classic Poem

I stand, in evening's shade withdrawn,
Mid twilight's dusky forms,
A Jupiter Pluvius of the lawn,
A local god of storms.
Not mine Jove's thunderbolts which clove
The blasted heath and holt;
I hold the storms of Pluvian Jove
Without his thunderbolt.
The nozzle of my hose I press,
And proudly take my stand;
I stand and pour my thunderless
Tornadoes on the land.

I grasp the nozzle of my hose,
And proudly I opine
Old Adam's Eden life was prose
Compared to life like mine.
Why for his hoseless garden sigh,
And for his hoseless day?
For what's a garden when it's dry
Without a hose, I say?
And so with joy I walk about,
And thread the evening gloom,
And lug my wandering waterspout
And portable simoom.

The little toads look up to me,
And though they all are dumb,
They think: " Our mighty deity,
The god of storms, has come.
From his benignant hand doth fly
The rain he giveth free,
He holds the cisterns of the sky,
The fountains of the sea;
His gracious storms new hopes infuse
Through all the fainting land —
Behold the mighty oceans ooze
Forever from his hand. "

Outside my yard the hot dog star
Rules with malefic sway —
My hose turns back the calendar,
Within my yard, to May;
I heed not August's fiery thrill,
For well I understand
A man can carry, if he will,
His climate in his hand.
Then turn the nozzle of your hose
In any clime or zone,
And make, the while its current flows,
A climate of your own.

The hand that may not hold the sword,
Or guide the ship of state,
Or write the poet's burning word,
Or do the deeds of fate;
The feeble hand of little worth
For battle or for blows
May add new freshness to the earth
By turning on the hose.
The nozzle of my hose I press,
And proudly take my stand;
I stand and pour my thunderless
Tornadoes on the land.