Is it raining, little flower?
The sky is very black, 'tis true,
Art thou weary, tender heart?
God watches and thou wilt have sun
Be glad of rain.
Too much sun would wither thee,
'Twill shine again.
But just behind it shines
The blue.
Be glad of pain;
In sorrow the sweetest things will grow
As flowers in the rain.
When clouds their perfect work
Have done.
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