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Summer Rain


Who is that young maiden,
Whose face I see plain,
Washed and touched and dimpled,
By the summer rain.

Whose hand is it that extends,
To catch a sampling of the Sun,
But ends up instead with little rainbows,
Trapped and caught to stun?

Whose eyes are those which twinkle,
Like little stars in a sand-clock old,
Wings of the whole world’s sorrows,
Bells of bronze and gold.

Who is the young dainty lady,
Who can carry a smile so bold,
When grief is being pelted at the dimples,
That the summer rain beholds.

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