The April rain falls quietly, With soft caress for bush and tree, And where the seeds lie buried deep It sinks, to rouse them from their sleep. It whispers to the earth "Prepare The fragrant garlands for your hair; Weave your bright dress of green, and now Waken the leaves on every bough. Call back the birds and bid them sing In their ecstatic carolling Of meadow blossoms, waving grain"— The April rain, the April rain. Within a city tenement There lies a child; her strength is spent. The sky, the very walls, the street Shrivel this flower with cruel heat. The fever burns; she moans and cries, 'Twere life if sleep could close her eyes. Sudden the blazing sky turns gray, The wind comes leaping on its way. Within the room steals quietly The cool breath of the woods and sea. The child is still; she sleeps again— The August rain, the August rain. The trees, mute figures of despair, Stand shivering in the biting air. Upon the oak the dead leaves cling, The faded tokens of the Spring. On these gray pensioners bestow The tender mantle of the snow. From leaden skies the rains descend Sharp as the treachery of a friend. The jewelled ice that bends each tree Is Death's last, bitter mockery, A sword to rend the boughs in twain— December rain, December rain. |