Don’t mourn the passing of the rain
It blossoms from the green fields around us
   where children play
And count “she loves me, she loves me not”
   on its petals
And where, in its shade,
   lovers count their unnumbered blessings
And each others’ charms

And where, more slowly, their parents walk
   and count the mingled years of joy and sorrow
Those past and those yet remaining –
    unknown
and uncountable before tears of remembrance
   again become the rain