Then comes a momentary lull, The darkest clouds are furled, And lo, new washed and beautiful And breathless gleams the world.
A drowsy rain is stealing In slowness without stop; The sun-dried earth is feeling Its coolness, drop by drop.
The clouds are slowly wasting Their too long garnered store, Each thirsty clod is tasting One drop--and then one more.
Oh, ravishing as slumber To wearied limbs and eyes, And countless as the number Of stars in wintry skies,
And sweet as the caresses By baby fingers made, These delicate rain kisses On leaf and flower and blade.
The patient earth that loves the grass, The flocks and herds that o’er it pass, That guards the smallest summer nest Within her scented bosom pressed, And gives to beetle, moth, and bee A lavish hospitality, Still waits through weary years to bind The hearts of suffering human kind.
How far we roamed away from her, The tender mother of us all! Yet ’mid the city’s noises stir The sound of birds that call and call, Wind melodies that rise and fall Along the perfumed woodland wall We looked upon with childhood’s eyes; The ugly streets are all a blur, And in our hearts are homesick cries.
The loving earth that roots the trees So closely to her inmost heart, Has rooted us as well as these, Not long from her we live apart; We draw upon a lengthening string, For months perhaps, perhaps for years, And plume ourselves that we are free, And then--we hear a robin sing Where starving grass shows stunted spears, Or haycart moving fragrantly Where creaking tavern sign-boards swing; Then closer, tighter draws the chain, The man, too old and worn for tears, Goes back to be a child again.
The greed that took us prisoner First led our steps away from her; For lust of gold we gave up life, And sank heart-deep in worldly strife. And when Success--belovèd name-- At last with faltering footsteps came, The city’s rough, harsh imps of sound And Competition’s crush and cheat Were in her wreath securely bound; Her fruits still savored of the street, Its choking dust, its wearied feet, Her poorest like her richest prize Was rotted o’er with envious eyes, And sickened with the human heat Of hands that strove to clutch it fast, And struggling gave it up at last. Not so where nature summer-crowned Makes fields and woods a pleasure-ground, Sky-blest, wind-kissed, and circled round With waters lapsing cool and sweet.