Poems (Cook)/The Shower

by Eliza Cook

THE SHOWER.

There was nothing but azure and gold in the sky,
The lips of the young Rose were yawning and dry,
And each blossom appeal'd, with luxurious sigh,
              To its neighbouring flower.

The Carnation exclaim'd, "I am really too bright;"
The lily drawl'd out, "I shall faint with the light;"
And a troop of red Poppies cried out in their might,
              "Let us pray for a shower."

The Myrtle-leaf said, "I'm too wearied to shine,"
And the Jasmine quite languidly lisp'd, to the Vine,
"Your ringlets I think are more lanky than mine,"
              Then sank down in her bower.

"There is really too much of this Midsummer blaze,"
Said the Sage-plant, while screening her root from the rays;
"The Poppies are right, though I hate their bold ways,
              We must ask for a shower."

They framed the petition, while Flora and Jove
Most attentively heard; and in fulness of love,
A dark, mist-laden messenger wander'd above
              For a shadowy hour.

The gloom came on suddenly,—that we must own,—
And we wonder'd where all the world's beauty had flown,
As the clouds gather'd up and the rain rattled down
              In a leaf-laying shower.

The blossoms fell prostrate and pensive awhile,
Bending down to the earth in most pitiful style,
Even after Apollo reburnish'd his smile.
              With more glorious power.

But at last they stood up in their strength, one by one,
And laugh'd out in the face of the beautiful sun,
With a perfume and colour they could not have done
              Were it not for the shower.

"It was sad while it lasted," the Mignonette said,
"To be splash'd by the dust and be stretch'd in the shade;"
Why, yes," said the Stock, "but how soon we should fade,
              And grow sickly and sour,

If we grumbled and whined 'neath the gold and the blue,
As we all have done lately,-between me and you,
I think that the very best thing we could do
              Was to ask for the shower."

Now "sermons in stones" we are told may be learn'd,
And methinks a quick eye may have aptly discern'd
That a rich draught of wisdom may often be urn'd
              In the cup of a flower.

Come read me the riddle, and read it aright,
All ye that have too much good luck in your sight,—
All ye that are faint in Prosperity's light,
              Just for want of a shower.

Have the wit of the blossoms, and ask for no more
At the hands of Dame Fortune, in station or store,
But think it a blessing if sorrow should pour,
              Or disquietude lower.

For the cloud and the rain-drop are exquisite things,
Though they dim for a season our butterfly wings,
And the sweetest and purest unceasingly springs
              After a shower.