The east wind had whistled for many a day,
Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain;
And the sun, muffled up in a dull robe of gray,
Look'd sullenly down on the plain.

The butterfly folded her wings as if dead,
Or awaked ere the full destined time;
Ev'ry flower shrank inward, or hung down its head
Like a young heart frost-nipp'd in its prime.

I, too, shrank and shiver'd, and eyed the cold earth,
The cold heaven with comfortless looks:
And I listen'd in vain for the summer bird's mirth,
And the music of rain-plenish'd brooks.

But, lo! while I listen'd, down heavily dropt
A few tears from a low-sailing cloud;
Large and few they descended - then thicken'd - then stopt,
Then pour'd down abundant and loud.

Oh, the rapture of beauty, of sweetness, of sound,
That succeeded that soft gracious rain!
With laughter and singing the valleys rang round,
And the little hills shouted again.

The wind sank away like a sleeping child's breath,
The pavilion of clouds was upfurl'd:
And the sun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death,
Smiled out on this beautiful world.

On this 'beautiful world' such a change had been wrought
By these few blessed drops. Oh! the same
On some cold stony heart might be worked too, methought,
Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame.

If a few virtuous tears by merciful shed,
Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain
That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead,
Might shoot up and flourish again.

And the smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from heaven,
Might chase the dark clouds of despair;
And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was riven,
Might gush out and soften all there.

Oh! to work such a change - by God's grace to recall
A poor soul from the death-sleep! To this!
To this joy that the angels partake, what were all
That the worldly and sensual call bliss?