Oh, rainbows follow stormy skies:
Or is it storms that follow them,
From the many-colored wraith the tempest flies?
Oh, when it rains, my love, I think of you,
And when I think of you, my love,
Then torrents pour and water drops anew.
I knew the sun awaited dreary's end...
But I was wrong and now I long for my rainbow back again.
Oh, rainbows bear a promise, love,
On which you firmly can depend.
Yet if you forward rush, retreat it does:
Forever out of reach, it moves apace
And shares itself tantalizingly.
Adults no longer give the sprinklers chase;
For children, though, it thrills without end,
And poets' songs sing on and on of their rainbows' magic bend.
Oh, rainbows can't corrupted-be,
My love, nor forced to others' ends.
Their subtle glory ineluctably
Belongs to dreamers' dreams and lovers' schemes
And fairy tales of hidden wealth
For the foolish wise to realize, reclaim, redeem....
And though it illusion might have been,
I'll be ever wrong and ever long for my rainbow back again.
