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.”