Spring Rain
A good rain knows its season.
It comes at the edge of Spring.
It steals through the night on-the breeze.
Noiselessly wetting everything
Dark night, the clouds black as the roads,
Only a light on a boat gleaming.
In the morning, thoroughly soaked with water,
the flowers hang their heavy heads.
It comes at the edge of Spring.
It steals through the night on-the breeze.
Noiselessly wetting everything
Dark night, the clouds black as the roads,
Only a light on a boat gleaming.
In the morning, thoroughly soaked with water,
the flowers hang their heavy heads.
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