THE LATTER RAIN
by: Jones Very (1813-1880)
- HE latter rain, it falls in anxious
haste
- Upon 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;
- The robins only mid the harvests sing
- Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves;
- The rain falls still--the fruit all ripened drops,
- It pierces chestnut burr and walnut shell,
- The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops,
- Each bursting pod of talents used can tell,
- And all that once received the early rain
- Declare to man it was not sent in vain.
MORE
POEMS BY JONES VERY |
|