Sweetly fell the rain on the springing grass,

The birds sang all with voices as clear as glass;

To greet the blackthorn I turned aside—

A presence too lovely to pass—

But as with worship I neared it, a man I espied

Asleep in the rain beneath the blossoming tree.

I forgot to look at the tree, I looked instead

At the man who lay so still with averted head.

Because I could not see his face

I wondered if he were dead.

My mind was full of doubt as I left the place—

But dead or alive he was a stranger to me.