"O HEART, my heart!" she said, and heard His mate the blackbird calling, While through the sheen of the garden green May rain was softly falling, -- Aye softly, softly falling. The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendor: The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood Peeped through its leefage tender, As the rain came softly falling. "O heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, "There's not a tree of the valley, Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss Freshens in yonder alley, Where the drops keep ever falling, -- "There's not a foolish flower i' the grass, Or bird through the woodland calling, So glad again of the coming of rain As I of these tears now falling, -- These happy tears down falling." |