Poems (Tynan)/Drought
For works with similar titles, see Drought.
DROUGHT
The sky is grayer than doves, Hardly a zephyr moves, Little voices complain; The leaves rustle before the rain.
No thrush is singing now, All is still in the heart o' the bough; Only the trembling cry Of young leaves murmuring thirstily.
Only the moan and stir Of little hands in the boughs I hear,Beckoning the rain to come Out of the evening, out of the gloom.
The wind's wings are still; Nothing stirs but the singing rill And hearts that complain. The leaves rustle before the rain.