Too long, too long on the mountain's brow
You linger, O storm-cloud! Know you not
I, the suffering lowland, need you now
Where the scorching sun glares hot?
You deluge the barren cliffs of chalk
While wither the grass and the fruitful grain,
And the red rose, shrivelling, dies on its stalk
With a smothered cry for rain.
You lavish your wealth on the lordly height
That knows not a miser's need therefor,--
With a smile I must take what is mine by right
As the gift true souls abhor.
But the rain that is mine by the love of God,
By the grace of the mountain a gift to me,
Of what avail to the parching sod,
Since it runneth down to the sea?
O cloud, I charge you to right my wrongs!
Be just with the bounty of God's own hand,
And scatter the rain where the rain belongs,
On the hot and thirsty land.
I charge you, cloud, by the love of God,
That you pour His gift on the humble plain
Till the myriad mouths of the parching sod
Drink deep of the blessed rain.