A short pause in the weather gives this tiny poem its starting point. The rain has stopped, unexpectedly, since no forecast promised it. That small surprise is a gift, the kind of unplanned lull that might ordinarily lift a person's spirits.
But the speaker's mood doesn't follow the sky. The last two lines turn inward: the heart is "raining still," as if the storm has simply moved indoors. The comparison to a "sot," an old word for a habitual drunkard, is striking. It suggests a sorrow that keeps going out of habit or compulsion, not something the speaker can easily stop. Like a drinker who keeps pouring, the heart keeps pouring too.
The mood is quiet, wry, and a little weary. The poem doesn't explain what hurts, and it doesn't need to. What it captures is the uneasy gap between a brightening world and a feeling that refuses to clear, and the way good weather can sometimes make private sadness feel more noticeable.