The Fingers of Rain

by Dora Read Goodale (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 incomplete,
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!