Summer Rain

Hartley Coleridge (1796–1849)

THICK lay the dust, uncomfortably white,

In glaring mimicry of Arab sand.

The woods and mountains slept in hazy light;

The meadows looked athirst and tawny tanned;

The little rills had left their channels bare,

With scarce a pool to witness what they were;

And the shrunk river gleamed ’mid oozy stones,

That stared like any famished giant’s bones.

Sudden the hills grew black, and hot as stove

The air beneath; it was a toil to be.

There was a growling as of angry Jove,

Provoked by Juno’s prying jealousy—

A flash—a crash—the firmament was split,

And down it came in drops—the smallest fit

To drown a bee in fox-glove bell concealed;

Joy filled the brook, and comfort cheered the field.