The House of the Trees
& Other Poems


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

A Slow Rain



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

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     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,

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And countless as the number
     Of stars in wintry skies,

And sweet as the caresses
     By baby fingers made,
These delicate rain kisses

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     On leaf and flower and blade. [Page 35]