Poems (Larcom)/Drought
For works with similar titles, see Drought.
DROUGHT.
THERE is a trouble may befall the soul, Beside which grief will seem a happiness. The stream whose murmur evermore to bless Your desert with bewildering music stole—That o'er your waste of being did unroll A weft of green, for beauty and for shade, And in the wilderness a garden made—Withdraws, drop after drop, its priceless dole; And the sweet grasses that the wind sang through, And all the star-eyed blossoms, droop and die, Till your bare life lies open to the sky,— The wide, calm weariness of rainless blue,—Without a voice to babble its distress; A barren, uncomplaining silentness.