Rain falling, soft in the misty dale;
the sun is hidden in the even of the
day. Violets and poppies, lilies and
lilacs, all fresh with the rain; life
bringing, cool in that time of the
colored evening. A wind is whistling
in the towering trees, setting the leaves
all to sighing, and the branches to
their sway, but naught of that but a fleeting
breeze comes down to rouse the nodding
blooms, and stir the grasses from their
stay. Night falls, with the winds dying,
and all is still in the sacred dell, save the
insects, and the rain, and a nightingale,
singing softly in refrain, poet sweet, in
the falling rain.