From my great-grandmother’s book of poetry, Where Children Live (1958)

Wide Rivers

A small boy has no use for gentle rains —
He watches with a weathered eye and mutters
For rains that come in torrents, flood the mains,
Overflowing streets and leaf-strewn gutters.

He sees wide rivers, far as eye can measure,
And, in storm-tossed debris, boats filled with treasure.