Somewhere they are blossoming over
The spot where I shall sleep.

Asleep from this wearisome aching,
With my arms crossed under my head,
I shall hear without awaking,
The rain that blesses the dead.

And the ocean of man's existence,--
The surges of toil and care,
Shall break and die in the distance,
But never reach me there.

And yet--I fancy it often--
I should stir in my shrouded sleep,
And struggle to rise in my coffin,
If he came there to weep.

Among the dead--or the angels--
Though ever so faint and dim,
I should know that voice in a thousand,
And stretch my hands to him.

But the trouble of life and living,
And the burden of daily care,
And the endless sin, and forgiving,
Are greater than I can bear.

So rain, Summer Rain, and cover
The meadows dewy and deep,