 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
DROUGHT.
There is a trouble may befall the soul,Beside which grief will seem a happiness.
The stream whose murmur evermore to bless
Your desert with bewildering music stole,
And over your waste borders did unroll
A weft of green, for beauty and for shade,
That in the wilderness a garden made—
Withdraws, drop after drop, its priceless dole;
And the sweet grasses that the wind sang through,
And all the star-eyed blossoms, droop and die,
Till your bare life lies open to the sky,
The wide, calm weariness of rainless blue,
Without a voice to babble its distress;
A barren, uncomplaining silentness.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |