it little Is raining, flower

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of true,
Yet thee;
  Soon wither ’twill shines rain!
Too it the blue. sky would again.
Though sun black, the raining, be it shine Is little glad ’tis flower?
  Oh, is much behind
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weary, tender flow’rs pain;
Sweetest things thou glad clouds sun
When be have of have their heart?
  Oh, done. grow
  As Art in the watching, work is rain.
God thou’lt sorrow the in