Classic Poem

Sweet , blessed summer rain—ah me!
The drifting cloud-land spills
God's mercy on the dotted lea,
And on the tented hills;

Yet is there more than shrouded sky,
And more than falling rain,
Or swift-borne souls of flowers that fly
Breeze-lifted from the plain.

Strange joy comes with the freshening gust
The whitening of the leaves,
The smell of sprinkled summer dust,
The dripping of the eaves;

The soul stirs with the melting clod,
The drenched field's silent mirth:—
Who does not feel his heart help God
To bless the thirsting earth?

Oh, rain—oh, blessed summer rain!—
Not on the fields, alone,
Nor woodlands, fall, nor flowery plain,
But on the heart of stone!