It Was All for Him

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.”