THE latter rain, -- it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste As if it would each root's lost strength repair; But not a blade grows green as in the spring; No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves; The rain falls still, -- the fruit all ripened drops, It pierces chestnut-bur and walnut-shell; The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops; Each bursting pod of talents used can tell; And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD by ROBERT BURNS BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA by ANDREW LANG TRAVEL by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH by WALT WHITMAN ON THE DEATH OF WALLER by APHRA BEHN CHRISTMAS EVE by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |