A rainy day in May does not at all
Remind me of wet winter mornings past
All gray and cold; nor does it much recall
In tone or temper autumn's drizzled blast.
New seems the rain, which falls in speckled shrouds
Yielding its essence to the softened earth
Dancing toward death, from purple spattered clouds
And ending life in sacrificial mirth--
Yet May's raindrops, reborn, arise anew
In flower's hearts; or soft green tree-buds gain
New life in late spring, nourished, rising true
Mothered by the life and death of rain.
And seeing this, I must, reflected, see
You, dearest Lord, who did the same for me.