When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down,

They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.

The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos.

Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.

Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.

Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.

When the rains come they have their holidays.

Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry?

Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are.

Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their mother as I have my own.