After long drought, commotion in the sky; 
After dead silence, thunder. Then it comes, 
The rain. It slashes leaves, and doubly drums 
On tin and shingle; beats and bends awry 
The flower heads; puddles dust, and with a sigh 
Like love sinks into grasses, where it hums 
As bees did once, among chrysanthemums 
And asters when the summer thought to die. 

The whole world dreamed of this, and has it now. 
Nor was the waking easy. The dull root 
Is jealous of its death; the sleepy brow 
Smiles in its slumber; and a heart can fear 
The very flood it longed for, roaring near. 
The spirit best remembers being mute.