To The Rain

A poem by Nora Pembroke

Come forth, O rain! from thy cool, distant hall,
And lave the parched brow of the feverish earth,
The little drooping flow'rets on thee call,
Come, with thy cool touch wake them up to mirth
They will lift up glad faces to the sky,
Drinking in gladness from the warm moist air,
Now, thirsty, hot, and faint they droop and die,
Thou only canst revive these fainting fair
The grain has shrivelled, pining after thee,
And waves light-headed from a sickly stalk,
There's no green herbage on the sunburned lea,
The glaring sun through glowing skies doth walk,
Looking down hotly on sweet Allumette,
Thinking to dry it with his ardent gaze,
Each day a strip of sand left bare and wet,
Tells how she shrinks from his pursuing rays


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