The Fingers of the Rain
Dora Read Goodale, American (1866 - 1915)
from All round the Year, Verses from Sky Farm
O sun, that has burned deep down with a heat
         that is fierce and intense,
         O Earth, that has risen in freshness, and drooped
         again and again,–
         The world is smitten and scorched thro’ every fibre
         and sense,
         And now, at last, there is rain!
O Earth, that is parched and white in the rage of 
         a mad desire,
         All in the sun-tide of Summer, darkened in deathly pain,
         Hot to the centre and core, and mad in a living fire,
         Now, there is rain,–there is rain!
Rain thro’ the quivering air; rain on the misty hill;
         Rain on the soul-touched seed, that long in the 
         earth has lain;
         Under the blaze of the sun, it has holden its secret 
         And now, out of Heaven, is rain!
Upward and outward to being, from a life that was
         Up, thro’ a shadowy  impulse,–up, thro’ a power,
         a pain,
         Up, in a nameless longing, that was sudden and strange and sweet,
         Up, at the touch of the rain!

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