Is it raining, little flower?
Oh, be glad of rain!
Too much sun would wither thee;
Soon 'twill shine again.
Though the sky is black, 'tis true,
Yet behind it shines the blue.
Art thou weary, tender heart?
Oh, be glad of pain;
Sweetest things in sorrow grow
As the flow'rs in rain.
God is watching, thou'lt have sun
When the clouds their work have done.