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


     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. [Page 35]