Doth mourn for thee.—
Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain.
Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!
See now, what transformation in thy touch!
Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees
Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms
From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift
Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white
As angels' raiment. Little wood children
Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth