Just like the coming of the summer rain.
I hear the music of the rippling rill,
The dews of morn are sprinkled on my cheek;
While down the valley and upon the hill
The laughing echoes play their hide-and-seek.
I roam the meadow where the violets grow,
I watch the shadows o'er the mountain creep;
I bathe my feet where sparkling fountains flow,
Or bow my head on moss-grown rocks to sleep.
I hear the bell ring out the passing hour,