I sing to thee of winter’s rain, my sweet;
I sing of hours spent and hours kept;
Of all the dreams beneath this rain, we’ve slept;
For all the time I’ve held thy head, thy feet,
I sing to thee, although my heart is fleet.
If not for me then thou wouldst not have wept;
Thy tears doth fill my pen which make adept,
And make me to produce such indiscreet
Reflection. When I think of all those hours,
Innumerable, they, within our frame;
As sore beset with devils, as with flowers;
Of all the seemingly unending pain;
Those times that seemed controlled by other powers;
I remember, then, how soothing is the rain.