These days are hot, and dry, and dreary;
The burning sun seems never weary
The vine lies limp on the thirsty earth—
The grass grows sere in the long, long dearth—
The days are dusty, hot and dreary.
The sky is cloudless, brassy, dreary,
The wind seems ever languid, weary
But hope still clings to the gifts of the Past—
We trust that the rain will come at last
And the days be damp and cheery.
O, clouds sweep o’er, veil the sun’s hot shining!
With copious rains, come, hush all repining,
Swell the shrunken grains of the sun-burnt lands,
With new, green grass clothe the arid sands,
Then the days will be bright and cheery.
August, 1895.