By the furrowed fields I lie,
Calling to the passers-by:
“If the weather you would tell,
Look at Scarlet Pimpernel.”
When the day is warm and fine,
I unfold these flowers of mine;
Ah, but you must look for rain
When I shut them up again!
Weather-glasses on the walls
Hang in wealthy people’s halls:
Though I lie where cart-wheels pass
I’m the Poor Man’s Weather-Glass!