Drouth

Why do we pity those who weep? The pain

That finds a ready outlet in the flow

Of salt and bitter tears is blessed woe,

And does not need our sympathies. The rain

But fits the shorn field for new yield of grain;

While the red, brazen skies, the sun's fierce glow,

The dry, hot winds that from the tropics blow

Do parch and wither the unsheltered plain.

The anguish that through long, remorseless years

Looks out upon the world with no relief

Of sudden tempests or slow-dripping tears—

The still, unuttered, silent, wordless grief

That evermore doth ache, and ache, and ache—

This is the sorrow wherewith hearts do break.