O rain, Summer Rain! forever,
Out of the crystal spheres,
And cool from my brain the fever,
And wash from my eyes the tears
Stir gently the blossoming clover,
In the hollows dewy and deep,--
Somewhere they are blossoming over
The spot where I shall sleep.
Asleep from this wearisome aching,
With my arms crossed under my head,
I shall hear without awaking,
The rain that blesses the dead.
And the ocean of man's existence,--
The surges of toil and care,
Shall break and die in the distance,
But never reach me there.
And yet--I fancy it often--
I should stir in my shrouded sleep,
And struggle to rise in my coffin,
If he came there to weep.
Among the dead--or the angels--
Though ever so faint and dim,
I should know that voice in a thousand,
And stretch my hands to him.
But the trouble of life and living,
And the burden of daily care,
And the endless sin, and forgiving,
Are greater than I can bear.
So rain, Summer Rain, and cover
The meadows dewy and deep,
And freshen the blossoming clover,
And sing me to dreamless sleep.