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.