The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


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.

O 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 80]