 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
79
DROUGHT.
The sun uprises, large and red,
The dawn is lost in a sultry glow;
Like a furnace roof is the heaven o'erhead,
Like tinder the thirsty earth below;
Hushed is the grateful voice of streams,
The famished fountains and brooks are dry;
And day by day do the burning beams
Pour from the pitiless sky.
The dawn is lost in a sultry glow;
Like a furnace roof is the heaven o'erhead,
Like tinder the thirsty earth below;
Hushed is the grateful voice of streams,
The famished fountains and brooks are dry;
And day by day do the burning beams
Pour from the pitiless sky.
All things languish and fade and pine;
Buds are withered before they bloom;
The blighted leaves of the window-vine
Chase each other about the room;
Vapors gather, then melt in light;
Rain-clouds promise, then burn away;
And all hearts faint as the sultry night
Follows the sultry day.
Buds are withered before they bloom;
The blighted leaves of the window-vine
Chase each other about the room;
Vapors gather, then melt in light;
Rain-clouds promise, then burn away;
And all hearts faint as the sultry night
Follows the sultry day.
Sadly adown the orchard lines
The apples shrivel and shrink and fall;
The scanty clusters among the vines
Wilt, half-ripe, on the scorching wall;
The peaches perish before their prime,
The trim espaliers are bare and lorn—
Dry and dead, as in winter time,
Stand the ranks of the curling corn.
The apples shrivel and shrink and fall;
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Wilt, half-ripe, on the scorching wall;
The peaches perish before their prime,
The trim espaliers are bare and lorn—
Dry and dead, as in winter time,
Stand the ranks of the curling corn.
No longer the cool and gurgling songs
Of warblers freshen the lifeless air;
The simmering noise of the insect throngs
Sound incessantly everywhere;
The ringing rasp of the locust comes
Piercing the sense like a wedge of sound;
The wasp from his nest in the gable hums,
And the cricket shrills from the ground.
Of warblers freshen the lifeless air;
The simmering noise of the insect throngs
Sound incessantly everywhere;
The ringing rasp of the locust comes
Piercing the sense like a wedge of sound;
The wasp from his nest in the gable hums,
And the cricket shrills from the ground.
The hard dry grasshopper, snugly hid,
Grates his sharpest, and thinks he sings;
The castanets of the katydid
Chime with the rattle of sharded wings;
Blundering, booming, the beetles pass,
While bats flit silent, as daylight dies;
And loud in the tangles of seedy grass
The peevish cat-bird cries.
Grates his sharpest, and thinks he sings;
The castanets of the katydid
Chime with the rattle of sharded wings;
Blundering, booming, the beetles pass,
While bats flit silent, as daylight dies;
And loud in the tangles of seedy grass
The peevish cat-bird cries.
Open-billed, with his wings a-droop,
The wren sits silent, and seeks no more
The half-built nest in the sunny stoop,
Or the children's crumbs by the open door;
Rustling with dead and brittle stalks
The paths of the garden are thick with dust;
And the rows of flower-beds down the walks
Are baked to an ashy crust.
The wren sits silent, and seeks no more
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Or the children's crumbs by the open door;
Rustling with dead and brittle stalks
The paths of the garden are thick with dust;
And the rows of flower-beds down the walks
Are baked to an ashy crust.
Parched to blackness the roses die,
Robbed of sweetness and form and hue;
Vainly the languid butterfly
Seeks, as of old, their garnered dew;
Vain the humming-bird's sweet pursuit;
The honey-bee's quest is sparely crowned;
Happy the mole that gnaws a root
In his cool nest underground!
Robbed of sweetness and form and hue;
Vainly the languid butterfly
Seeks, as of old, their garnered dew;
Vain the humming-bird's sweet pursuit;
The honey-bee's quest is sparely crowned;
Happy the mole that gnaws a root
In his cool nest underground!
The fading foliage of waiting woods,
The fields all barren and bare and brown,
The city's suffering multitudes,
The parching roofs of the thirsty town,
The herds which snuff at the yellow grass,
The leaves which open their palms in vain,
The sea that mirrors a sky like brass—
All these do pray for rain.
The fields all barren and bare and brown,
The city's suffering multitudes,
The parching roofs of the thirsty town,
The herds which snuff at the yellow grass,
The leaves which open their palms in vain,
The sea that mirrors a sky like brass—
All these do pray for rain.
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