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The Rain
The rain descends; each drop some drooping flowers,Or parched blade drinks in with grateful haste;
Nor is there from the plenteous falling shower,
A drop that nature will permit to waste;
The river swells beneath the pattering rain,
And as a seine its face is dotted o'er;
It falls not on the barren path in vain,
But drunken quick it asks to have yet more;
Nor think that where the pool untasted stands,
As if its life refused the sullen earth;
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To-morrow's sun shall see the duck's rude mirth;
As there it sails or drinks with snuffling bill,
Rejoiced that there is spared its thirst with theirs to fill.
Poem No. 550; fall 1839
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