“When I am dead, and over me bright AprilShakes out her rain drenched hair,Tho you should lean above me broken hearted,I shall not care.For I shall have peace.As leafey trees are peacefulWhen rain bends down the bough.And I shall be more silent and cold heartedThan you are now”

“I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough; And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now.”

“But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,If I am dead, as dead I well may be,You'll come and find the place where I am lying,And kneel and say Ave there for me,And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,For you will bend and tell me that you love me,And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me”

“I hate the rain. When your heart is in chaos, this sky becomes terribly easily. Can you understand... the horror of being pelted by rain in this solitary world? If only to stop the rain, I shall lend you any strenght. If you trust in me. I will let no rain fall in this world. Trust me. Your not fighting alone.”

“When I Am Dead, My DearestWhen I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.”

“Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rainOn this bleak hut, and solitude, and meRemembering again that I shall dieAnd neither hear the rain nor give it thanksFor washing me cleaner than I have beenSince I was born into this solitude.Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:But here I pray that none whom once I lovedIs dying to-night or lying still awakeSolitary, listening to the rain,Either in pain or thus in sympathyHelpless among the living and the dead,Like a cold water among broken reeds,Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,Like me who have no love which this wild rainHas not dissolved except the love of death,If love it be towards what is perfect andCannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.”