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.