How sweet the music of the rain,
At evening or morn,
When clouds with trails that reach the ground
Pass o'er the fields of corn.
Man's work is done. The toiling days
Of heat and anxious care
Are ended, and the falling rain
With music fills the air.
How long and hard the fight since first
Was turned the lifeless sod,
Since first the harrow surged its way
To pulverize each clod,
How long since planting of the seed,
The sacrifice each morn,
To keep the weeds from growing where
Now stands the field of corn.
Out from my window to the fields
I cast a grateful eye,
I see the raindrops falling down
From out the cloudy sky,
And as they fall upon the fields
New hopes in me are born,
For plenty dwells when July rains
Fall on the fields of corn.
(Madison, Wis.: American Thresherman. 1901)