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Back in the weather

It's a gorgeous morning in Shawford, warm and sunny without a trace of humidity, though there is always the possibility of rain, especially if I water the garden. Even as I write, a soft covering of cloud has begun to unfurl across the sun . . . The doves clap their wings.

British weather is inspiring because it's lovely, exciting and ever-changing, never to be counted on, but always to be hoped. . .I arrived in a downpour of rain that had my cab driver singing 'Pennies from heaven'. The torrent was followed by hours of brilliant sun. Unchanging wet or sunny days - how dependable but how terribly boring! Not likely to give rise to a sonnet -

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
’Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face. . .

But as you suspected, Shakespeare's real quarrel is with a beloved, not with the Sun -

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence’s cross.

Yet, oh, yet -

. . .those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
~Sonnet XXXIV

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