INVOCATION TO RAIN
O BLESSED angel of the All-bounteous King,Where dost thou stay so long? our sad hearts pine,Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyesScan all the blue expanse, where not a cloudFloats low to rest our vision. In vain we turnOr east or west, no vaporous haze, nor viewOf distant panorama, wins our soulsTo other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.Thy brother Spring is come.His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray—The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leavesOf yellow dog's tooth vie with curly frondsOf feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path;The dielytra puts her necklace on,Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grassGrows up in single blades and braves the sun.But thou!—O, where art thou, sweet early Rain,That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?The contemplative blue-bird pipes his noteFrom off the ridge-cap, but can find no spotFit for his nest. The red-breast on the fenceExplores the pasture with his piercing eye,And visits oft the bushes by the stream,But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuftsAre there to hide a house....A-missing theeThe husbandman goes forth with faltering stepAnd dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hardThe labouring plough, but the dry earth falls backAs dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogsThe plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould.The willows have a little tender green,And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creekNow fallen to pools—but, disappointed,Dash away so swift, and fly so highWe scarce can follow them. Thus all the landDoth mourn for thee.—Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain.Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!See now, what transformation in thy touch!Straight all the land is green. The blossoming treesPut on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charmsFrom the too ardent sun, beneath thy giftOf soft diaphanous tissue, pure and whiteAs angels' raiment. Little wood childrenDeck all the path with flowers. The teeming earthOffers rich gifts. The little choristersSing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandmanAdds his diapason. Bright fountains wakeAnd mingle with the swift roulade of streams.The earth is full of music! Thou dost swingThy fragrant censer high, and dwellers inThe dusty city raise their toil-worn headsFrom desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms,And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks,And the plover whistling in the fields.The little children dream of daisy chains,And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday,—A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!Touch our hard hearts, that we may more becomeLike that Great Heart whose almoner art thou.
O BLESSED angel of the All-bounteous King,Where dost thou stay so long? our sad hearts pine,Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyesScan all the blue expanse, where not a cloudFloats low to rest our vision. In vain we turnOr east or west, no vaporous haze, nor viewOf distant panorama, wins our soulsTo other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.Thy brother Spring is come.His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray—The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leavesOf yellow dog's tooth vie with curly frondsOf feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path;The dielytra puts her necklace on,Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grassGrows up in single blades and braves the sun.But thou!—O, where art thou, sweet early Rain,That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?The contemplative blue-bird pipes his noteFrom off the ridge-cap, but can find no spotFit for his nest. The red-breast on the fenceExplores the pasture with his piercing eye,And visits oft the bushes by the stream,But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuftsAre there to hide a house....A-missing theeThe husbandman goes forth with faltering stepAnd dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hardThe labouring plough, but the dry earth falls backAs dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogsThe plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould.The willows have a little tender green,And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creekNow fallen to pools—but, disappointed,Dash away so swift, and fly so highWe scarce can follow them. Thus all the landDoth mourn for thee.—Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain.Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!See now, what transformation in thy touch!Straight all the land is green. The blossoming treesPut on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charmsFrom the too ardent sun, beneath thy giftOf soft diaphanous tissue, pure and whiteAs angels' raiment. Little wood childrenDeck all the path with flowers. The teeming earthOffers rich gifts. The little choristersSing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandmanAdds his diapason. Bright fountains wakeAnd mingle with the swift roulade of streams.The earth is full of music! Thou dost swingThy fragrant censer high, and dwellers inThe dusty city raise their toil-worn headsFrom desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms,And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks,And the plover whistling in the fields.The little children dream of daisy chains,And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday,—A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!Touch our hard hearts, that we may more becomeLike that Great Heart whose almoner art thou.
O BLESSED angel of the All-bounteous King,Where dost thou stay so long? our sad hearts pine,Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyesScan all the blue expanse, where not a cloudFloats low to rest our vision. In vain we turnOr east or west, no vaporous haze, nor viewOf distant panorama, wins our soulsTo other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.Thy brother Spring is come.His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray—The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leavesOf yellow dog's tooth vie with curly frondsOf feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path;The dielytra puts her necklace on,Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grassGrows up in single blades and braves the sun.But thou!—O, where art thou, sweet early Rain,That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?The contemplative blue-bird pipes his noteFrom off the ridge-cap, but can find no spotFit for his nest. The red-breast on the fenceExplores the pasture with his piercing eye,And visits oft the bushes by the stream,But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuftsAre there to hide a house....A-missing theeThe husbandman goes forth with faltering stepAnd dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hardThe labouring plough, but the dry earth falls backAs dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogsThe plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould.The willows have a little tender green,And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creekNow fallen to pools—but, disappointed,Dash away so swift, and fly so highWe scarce can follow them. Thus all the landDoth mourn for thee.—Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain.Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!See now, what transformation in thy touch!Straight all the land is green. The blossoming treesPut on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charmsFrom the too ardent sun, beneath thy giftOf soft diaphanous tissue, pure and whiteAs angels' raiment. Little wood childrenDeck all the path with flowers. The teeming earthOffers rich gifts. The little choristersSing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandmanAdds his diapason. Bright fountains wakeAnd mingle with the swift roulade of streams.The earth is full of music! Thou dost swingThy fragrant censer high, and dwellers inThe dusty city raise their toil-worn headsFrom desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms,And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks,And the plover whistling in the fields.The little children dream of daisy chains,And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday,—A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!Touch our hard hearts, that we may more becomeLike that Great Heart whose almoner art thou.
O BLESSED angel of the All-bounteous King,
Where dost thou stay so long? our sad hearts pine,
Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyes
Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud
Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn
Or east or west, no vaporous haze, nor view
Of distant panorama, wins our souls
To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.
Thy brother Spring is come.
His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray—
The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.
Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves
Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds
Of feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path;
The dielytra puts her necklace on,
Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.
Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass
Grows up in single blades and braves the sun.
But thou!—O, where art thou, sweet early Rain,
That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?
The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note
From off the ridge-cap, but can find no spot
Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence
Explores the pasture with his piercing eye,
And visits oft the bushes by the stream,
But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tufts
Are there to hide a house....
A-missing thee
The husbandman goes forth with faltering step
And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard
The labouring plough, but the dry earth falls back
As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs
The plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould.
The willows have a little tender green,
And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creek
Now fallen to pools—but, disappointed,
Dash away so swift, and fly so high
We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land
Doth mourn for thee.—
Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain.
Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!
See now, what transformation in thy touch!
Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees
Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms
From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift
Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white
As angels' raiment. Little wood children
Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth
Offers rich gifts. The little choristers
Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman
Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake
And mingle with the swift roulade of streams.
The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing
Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in
The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads
From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"
And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms,
And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks,
And the plover whistling in the fields.
The little children dream of daisy chains,
And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday,—
A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.
O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!
Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become
Like that Great Heart whose almoner art thou.