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 of talents used can tell, 
And all that once received the early rain 
Declare to man it was not sent in vain.