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78
HERBERT PRICE.
DROUGHT.
Lo! all the land is dry and parched with heat,
And all the hills are white with withered grass
That hath no touch of greenness; and, alas!
See how the lately waving fields of wheat
Droop wearily towards a sure defeat
Before the scorching winds that hourly pass
Over the arid earth; how like a glass
The hot flats shimmer underneath the heat,
More strenuous as the stifling weeks increase,
Of quenchless and unmitigable rays,
That make a terror of the rainless days;
And the clear vault of fire, that will not cease
To heap with death the long and dusty ways,
And burn out life from all the leafless trees.
Herbert Price.
