The Breaking of the Drought

On the strained ear the hush bears heavily, And heavily the threatening moments pass. The cricket-choirs are mute within the grass And clamorous bird cries once and then is still, Answered by one more elfin-voiced than he From the mist-hidden hill.

The small soft clouds drop down like drifted smoke, And one by one haste earthward on the wind, With tempest-torn battalions rolled behind, Most merciful in wrath; and in the shade Of those slow-heaving folds, the lightning's stroke Shears like a golden blade.

But swift and sweet a warmer breeze leaps forth, Bearing the scent of clover drenched in rain And as it sighs to silence once again, The old Earth-Mother lifts her wearied eyes, Beholding in those far-flung signs of wrath A late salvation rise.

But all their wrath weeps down in silver drops, And all those dark cloud-banners far unfurl'd Droop down in kindlier mist to veil the world. And, silver from the silver-shining sea, There comes, soft-shrouding all the mountain tops, The gray fog silently.

Wide on their sands the little streams have crept, And all the leaves have whispered murmuringly Of hope, and show'r and sunnier days to be. But still no bird lifts up triumphant voice And the old Earth is hushed as if she slept Too weary to rejoice.

Not yet shall come the triumph and the strife! Not yet, Earth-Mother, from some woodland bird Shall the full-throated psalm of love be heard. Not yet the dawns to war and labour call, But o'er the re-created tides of life Soft easeful languors fall.

This is the air of which our dreams are bred, And softly-blown, sleep-singing winds are these. With murmur and more tuneful silences The drowsy waves beat on the drowsier shore, And vaporous clouds, seen dimly overhead, Wheel southward evermore.

Now o'er the fields serenely falls the night, Moonless and still in soft gray hues of rest. The rifted rain clears slowly from the west, Where lingers one translucent amber bar, And a small wandering shred of cloud, so bright It seems a star.