Poems (Larcom)/Drought
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For works with similar titles, see Drought.
DROUGHT.
THERE is a trouble may befall the soul,
Beside which grief will seem a happiness.
The stream whose murmur evermore to bless
Your desert with bewildering music stole—
That o'er your waste of being did unroll
A weft of green, for beauty and for shade,
And in the wilderness a garden made—
Withdraws, drop after drop, its priceless dole;
And the sweet grasses that the wind sang through,
And all the star-eyed blossoms, droop and die,
Till your bare life lies open to the sky,—
The wide, calm weariness of rainless blue,—
Without a voice to babble its distress;
A barren, uncomplaining silentness.
Beside which grief will seem a happiness.
The stream whose murmur evermore to bless
Your desert with bewildering music stole—
That o'er your waste of being did unroll
A weft of green, for beauty and for shade,
And in the wilderness a garden made—
Withdraws, drop after drop, its priceless dole;
And the sweet grasses that the wind sang through,
And all the star-eyed blossoms, droop and die,
Till your bare life lies open to the sky,—
The wide, calm weariness of rainless blue,—
Without a voice to babble its distress;
A barren, uncomplaining silentness.