A Silly Song
“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 splendour:
The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood
Peeped through its leafage 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 rain
As I of these tears now falling,—
These happy tears down falling.”