Is it raining, little flower?
Be glad of rain.
Too much sun would wither thee,
‘Twill shine again.
The sky is very black, ’tis true,
But just behind it shines
The blue.
Art thou weary, tender heart?
Be glad of pain;
In sorrow the sweetest things will grow
As flowers in the rain.
God watches and thou wilt have sun
When clouds their perfect work
Have done.
symphonylove 