Sonnet Written to Bouts-rimes (And is this August weather? Nay, not so)

And is this August weather? Nay, not so.
With the long rain the cornfield waxeth dark.
How the cold rain comes pouring down! and hark
To the chill wind whose measured pace and slow
Seems still to linger, being loth to go.
I cannot stand beside the sea and mark
Its grandeur -- it's too wet for that: no lark
In this drear season cares to sing or show.
And, since its name is August, all men find
Fire not allowable; winter foregone
Had more of sunlight and of glad warmth more.
I shall be fain to run upon the shore
And mark the rain. Hath the sun ever shone?
Cheer up! there can be nothing worse to mind.