Clear, tiny droplets, which some April showers
Born of big, listed clouds, did weep o’er them,
In their pure joy that summer’s rosy bowers
Were bursting into bloom. Oh! dewdrops pale,
How bountiful His hand, who sends the blessing
Of your surpassing coolness to th’ oppressing
Thirst of the dying flowers, whose juices fail
(But for such timely aid) ’neath noontide’s sun.
There is no storm-wind with its rushing wail,
There is no storm-cloud lowers o’er the vale,