The Latter Rain

Jones Very, American (1813-1880)

Essays and Poems 1839


Poem

THE latter rain,--it falls in anxious haste
Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,
Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste,
As if it would each root's lost strength repair;
But not a blade grows green as in the spring,
No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves;
The robins only mid the harvests sing,
Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves:
The rain falls still,-the fruit all ripened drops,
It pierces chestnut burr and walnut shell,
The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops,
Each bursting pod o£ talents used can tell,
And all that once received the early rain
Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

2017-9