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the summer rain.
It bringeth joy to a thousand things,
The thirsty herbage to meet it springs;
The corn is drinking the blessed draught,
And the oak of the forest its stream hath quaffed,
And the light leaves laugh, as its silvery tide,
Like a gift of beauty, falls far and wide;
The smallest flower, in the deepest glen,
That never bloomed for the eye of men—
The gayest plant in the garden's bound—
The broadest bough in the greenwood found—
Each blade of grass, and each stately tree,
Drinketh the rain-drops joyfully.
The thirsty herbage to meet it springs;
The corn is drinking the blessed draught,
And the oak of the forest its stream hath quaffed,
And the light leaves laugh, as its silvery tide,
Like a gift of beauty, falls far and wide;
The smallest flower, in the deepest glen,
That never bloomed for the eye of men—
The gayest plant in the garden's bound—
The broadest bough in the greenwood found—
Each blade of grass, and each stately tree,
Drinketh the rain-drops joyfully.
What doth it image—the Summer rain,
When clouds are spread over earth again ?
And softly on meadow, and hill, and grove,
It comes like a voice from the world above?
It speaks of the Spirit's holy power
On the human heart in affliction's hour;
So doth it fall, when the heart is sere,
With the parching cares of this lower sphere;
When clouds are spread over earth again ?
And softly on meadow, and hill, and grove,
It comes like a voice from the world above?
It speaks of the Spirit's holy power
On the human heart in affliction's hour;
So doth it fall, when the heart is sere,
With the parching cares of this lower sphere;
