Under this sun the crops are drying up In the arid soil; even the summer weeds Are wilted. We have watched the marshes shrink Till, pitying the birds that come to drink, We set out pans of water. Our own needs Go deeper; yet we fill them cup by cup - Or drop by drop - from the hidden spring that flows Subconsciously in every man. Who knows What rivers run beneath the parching plain? Tomorrow or tomorrow's morrow, green Will reappear and moisture to the grass. If we, convinced that droughts like floods will pass, Are fretful at the waiting-times between - We never doubt the miracle of rain.