 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
The Latter Rain
The latter rain,—it falls in anxious hasteUpon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,
Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste,
As if it would each root's lost strength repair;
But not a blade grows green as in the spring,
No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves,
No busy birds, as then, are heard to sing,
Building upon the boughs or 'neath the eaves;
The rain falls still,—yet Nature heeds it not,
She lifeless lies, as lies upon the bier
The corse that soon within the ground must rot,
Nor knows that on it falls the scalding tear;
Yet she tho' dead, like man, shall live again,
And bless with smiles and songs the latter rain.
Poem No. 518a; c. 4 April 1846
| Jones Very : The Complete Poems | |