What the rain is to the tender rose
Cannot be mastered by you and me.
To feed it drunk with an overdose?
To drown its roots simultaneously?

It comes in Spring with the misty weather,
Slow and beauteous and fills the rose with verdure.
And who looks at the vegetation in September
Thinks the rose will be jovial forever.

And when the flowers are budding new—
Tasting a love and a love that's true.
Who would think in Summer the loving rain will be violent,
Washing away the roses and the violets?

But even after thunder and lightning roses will glow,
Vegetation will perfect and verdure will grow...
What's bad of the rain it only fills a prose;
But it fills a novel what the rain is to the rose.