The Woods,” as I walked alone, I thought I heard the rain; But it was only withering leaves That rustled on the plain.

I said, “Shall I go back, and seat Me in the forest fane? I will for verity that finds A leaf, but finds not rain.”

Oh, none of us shall know, dear soul, So long as we remain. What falls upon our hidden hearts As a rain falls on the plain.

• Alfred Lord Tennyson