Love is the soft rain that washes
The bare heads of the hills with tears.
Hope, the high, Spring-melt snows,
Answering the music of the spheres.
Feeding the stream that drives man's wheels,
And grinds his meagre corn.
Carving out the valleys of his soul,
From the moment he is born.
Terrible, fierce, beautiful when young,
Fighting its way to the sea;
Calm, wide, serene when old,
Its arms spread effortlessly.
Born in clouds of mysterious fires;
Drowning in the ocean of our desires.
