The Drought.
It fringes the furze of the parching tongueIn the cheek of the fevered sky,And deepens the glare of the sun’s red stareIn his dust-hung canopy.The wrinkled rivers crawl and creepO’er the sands of the sun-scorched bars,And their fetid breath like the breath of DeathFloats up to the burning stars.O it’s heat—heat—heat—Till the heart throbs hot,And dust, till the eyes grow dim,And the fire-brands burn in the eyeball’s clotAnd whirl while the sockets swim.The white shafts shoot from the furnaced WestAs bolts from a blazing gun,And again from the East like a blood-red beastBursts out the burnished sun.The crinkled air crawls o’er the earth,A snake with a withered tongue—And over the heath of his blight beneathA spume-flaked banner is flung.O it is dust—dust—dust—Till the eyeballs ache,And heat till the heart-drops run,For the brown earth burns in the butchering bakeThat leaps from the soul of the sun.John Trotwood Moore.
It fringes the furze of the parching tongueIn the cheek of the fevered sky,And deepens the glare of the sun’s red stareIn his dust-hung canopy.The wrinkled rivers crawl and creepO’er the sands of the sun-scorched bars,And their fetid breath like the breath of DeathFloats up to the burning stars.O it’s heat—heat—heat—Till the heart throbs hot,And dust, till the eyes grow dim,And the fire-brands burn in the eyeball’s clotAnd whirl while the sockets swim.The white shafts shoot from the furnaced WestAs bolts from a blazing gun,And again from the East like a blood-red beastBursts out the burnished sun.The crinkled air crawls o’er the earth,A snake with a withered tongue—And over the heath of his blight beneathA spume-flaked banner is flung.O it is dust—dust—dust—Till the eyeballs ache,And heat till the heart-drops run,For the brown earth burns in the butchering bakeThat leaps from the soul of the sun.John Trotwood Moore.
It fringes the furze of the parching tongueIn the cheek of the fevered sky,And deepens the glare of the sun’s red stareIn his dust-hung canopy.The wrinkled rivers crawl and creepO’er the sands of the sun-scorched bars,And their fetid breath like the breath of DeathFloats up to the burning stars.
It fringes the furze of the parching tongue
In the cheek of the fevered sky,
And deepens the glare of the sun’s red stare
In his dust-hung canopy.
The wrinkled rivers crawl and creep
O’er the sands of the sun-scorched bars,
And their fetid breath like the breath of Death
Floats up to the burning stars.
O it’s heat—heat—heat—Till the heart throbs hot,And dust, till the eyes grow dim,And the fire-brands burn in the eyeball’s clotAnd whirl while the sockets swim.
O it’s heat—heat—heat—
Till the heart throbs hot,
And dust, till the eyes grow dim,
And the fire-brands burn in the eyeball’s clot
And whirl while the sockets swim.
The white shafts shoot from the furnaced WestAs bolts from a blazing gun,And again from the East like a blood-red beastBursts out the burnished sun.The crinkled air crawls o’er the earth,A snake with a withered tongue—And over the heath of his blight beneathA spume-flaked banner is flung.
The white shafts shoot from the furnaced West
As bolts from a blazing gun,
And again from the East like a blood-red beast
Bursts out the burnished sun.
The crinkled air crawls o’er the earth,
A snake with a withered tongue—
And over the heath of his blight beneath
A spume-flaked banner is flung.
O it is dust—dust—dust—Till the eyeballs ache,And heat till the heart-drops run,For the brown earth burns in the butchering bakeThat leaps from the soul of the sun.
O it is dust—dust—dust—
Till the eyeballs ache,
And heat till the heart-drops run,
For the brown earth burns in the butchering bake
That leaps from the soul of the sun.
John Trotwood Moore.
John Trotwood Moore.