The Soaking Rain

When gazing from the balcony, The softest drops fall down like prayers, Yet in thy garden where time’s unseen, A glint of longing so gently flares.

In the pouring hymn of every dew, I find a word midst winds of grace; The blossom blushed is born anew, In ebon skies, the light’s sweet trace.

And where the waste and wear arise, Like vapor waltzing through the air, Comes the furled tide of a crying sigh, To breathe between old bounds so rare.

• Thomas Hardy