 | Evensong |  |
39
AFTER DROUGHT
The rain gropes with delicate pushing fingers
At the dry lips of the small things, dying of pain
Gives of her breast. 'Twas but dream! She tarries and lingers.
The thirsty death is upon them. Hasten, O Rain!
At the dry lips of the small things, dying of pain
Gives of her breast. 'Twas but dream! She tarries and lingers.
The thirsty death is upon them. Hasten, O Rain!
It is no dream, little sisters! Her white foot passes,
Plashing in water sweeter than honey-dew.
Take heart, O slender ones, all ye flowers and ye grasses
The river of life is running for you and you.
Plashing in water sweeter than honey-dew.
Take heart, O slender ones, all ye flowers and ye grasses
The river of life is running for you and you.
Fainting and dying, the cattle in bone-dry pasture
Dream in a mirage of water up to the hocks.
Hope, little brothers? The glint of her white, wet vesture
Cheats you no longer. Hark to the water-brooks!
Dream in a mirage of water up to the hocks.
Hope, little brothers? The glint of her white, wet vesture
Cheats you no longer. Hark to the water-brooks!
Earth's sick children, the old and the fevered bodies
That had no rest for the fierce heat and the drouth,
Ask: Is it she? the beloved, the life-giving goddess?
Her wet hands in the hair, her kiss on the mouth.
That had no rest for the fierce heat and the drouth,
Ask: Is it she? the beloved, the life-giving goddess?
Her wet hands in the hair, her kiss on the mouth.
Ring out, ye garden bells, from a fairy steeple;
Canterbury bells and harebells shake all the towers,
Because our God wills not the death of the people,
Because His Rain comforts this earth of ours.
Canterbury bells and harebells shake all the towers,
Because our God wills not the death of the people,
Because His Rain comforts this earth of ours.
Because the glad streams are running by hills & valleys,
Because the springs are filling; the wet wind blows,
The draught of life flows fast from a brimming chalice,
The world 's as sweet as a rose: a rain-wet rose.
Because the springs are filling; the wet wind blows,
The draught of life flows fast from a brimming chalice,
The world 's as sweet as a rose: a rain-wet rose.
| Evensong | |