Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with

Hear, O children of wonder, the gentle yet powerful voice of Langston Hughes, the poet who sang the dreams of a people and gave rhythm to their sorrow and hope. He declared: “Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” These words, tender as a mother’s hand, remind us that even the storm carries gifts, even the gray sky pours down a kind of love, if only we open our hearts to it. Hughes, master of song and soul, saw in the rain not merely water falling from heaven, but a sacred embrace.

The rain is often feared by men: it soaks garments, delays journeys, turns earth to mud. Yet Hughes bids us not to flee it, but to receive it. He calls it a kiss, a gesture of affection, an anointing from the sky. Each drop, he tells us, is not a burden but a blessing, not punishment but poetry. Where others hear noise, he hears a lullaby, a song of rest sung by the heavens themselves. Thus the poet teaches us to transform our vision: what the world calls nuisance may in truth be grace.

In this, Hughes draws from his own life and the life of his people. Born in an age of hardship, walking through a world shadowed by segregation and injustice, he knew well the storms of existence. Yet instead of bitterness, he turned to beauty. He listened for the music in the rain, for the rhythm in sorrow, for the silver in the clouds. Like the jazz that lifted weary souls in Harlem’s nightclubs, Hughes’ words reminded the downtrodden that joy could be found even under a weeping sky.

Consider also the tale of Nelson Mandela, imprisoned for long years in the stone fortress of Robben Island. Behind bars, denied freedom, he might have despaired. Yet even there he found strength in small wonders—the sea air, the voices of comrades, the vision of a future not yet written. He too let the “rain” of hardship fall upon him, but instead of letting it drown him, he let it sing him a lullaby of endurance. And when he emerged, he carried within him not only scars, but also songs of forgiveness and hope.

So let us learn, O listeners, to welcome the rain of life. For storms will surely come—sorrows, delays, disappointments, the soaking griefs that chill the heart. But if we harden ourselves against them, we gain nothing but misery. If instead we open our arms, if we let the rain “kiss” us, then even sorrow becomes sacred. The storm becomes teacher, the cloud becomes companion, and the rain becomes the lullaby that calms the restless spirit.

This wisdom calls us not only to endurance, but to transformation. The next time grief descends, do not curse it. Instead, ask: what music hides within it? When difficulties press down, listen for their rhythm, as Hughes did in his poetry. When loss falls upon you like heavy rain, let it wash away old burdens, leaving you purified, ready to grow anew. For every storm waters the seeds of tomorrow.

Practical is this counsel: the next time rain falls—whether upon your skin or upon your soul—pause, close your eyes, and receive it. Do not rush for shelter at once. Feel its coolness, hear its song, allow it to remind you that you are alive. Write down what lesson it whispers, or speak aloud the gratitude it awakens. By doing so, you will train your heart to see blessing where others see only trouble, to hear lullabies where others hear only thunder.

Thus, remember Hughes’ words: “Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” For in welcoming life’s storms, you will discover not only endurance, but also beauty, tenderness, and peace. The sky itself will become your companion, and every storm will end with a song.