Like the soft patter of the summer rain;
And oh, one weary sufferer knew it well,
And moaned a welcome from his bed of pain!
Close to his breast she crept, and kneeling there,
He twined the violets in her sunny hair.
Charmed from his fretful mood, the sufferer laid
One thin white hand upon her worn gray dress;
‘Dear child!’ he murmured, while the sunbeams played
At hide-and-seek amid each wandering tress,
‘Withdraw the blind—let in the rosy morn;