Francis William Bourdillon (22 March 1852 – 13 January 1921 / Runcorn, Cheshire)
For rain, for rain the parched lands cry,
Reproachful to the cloudless sky.
The hot white fields in light are blinking,
The rivers in their beds are shrinking.
For rest, for rest the weary cry
That watch from dark to dawn the sky;
A little sleep their limbs are craving,
A little rest from ceaseless raving.
God gives in His good time the rain,
And sends the sick man peace for pain;
But while we wait His gracious sending,
Alas! the sad days seem unending.
Yet, when the evening comes, the dew
Brings to the fields a fragrance new;
And loving smiles at day’s returning
Will soothe awhile the sick man’s yearning.
Comments about this poem (Drought by Francis William Bourdillon )
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