 | The wind in the trees |  |
52
DROUGHT
The sky is greyer than doves,
Hardly a zephyr moves,
Little voices complain,
The leaves rustle before the rain.
Hardly a zephyr moves,
Little voices complain,
The leaves rustle before the rain.
No thrush is singing now,
All is still in the heart o' the bough;
Only the trembling cry
Of young leaves murmuring thirstily.
All is still in the heart o' the bough;
Only the trembling cry
Of young leaves murmuring thirstily.
Only the moan and stir
Of little hands in the boughs I hear,
Beckoning the rain to come
Out of the evening, out of the gloom.
Of little hands in the boughs I hear,
Beckoning the rain to come
Out of the evening, out of the gloom.
53
The wind's wings are still,
Nothing stirs but the singing rill
And hearts that complain.
The leaves rustle before the rain.
Nothing stirs but the singing rill
And hearts that complain.
The leaves rustle before the rain.
| The wind in the trees | |