.Der Welt er Leben schenkt,
Des Tropfens Niederschlag.
Den neuen zarten Spross,
Den bringt er zum erblühen.
Wäscht ab den Staub,
Enthüllt der Blätter frisches Grün;
Doch trüb scheint jede Stund,
Zu der er kommen mag.
Es weint der Himmel still um einen S.
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