Classic Poem

The rain has held back for days and days,
my God, in my arid heart.
The horizon is fiercely naked —
not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud,
not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.
Send thy angry storm, dark with death,
if it is thy wish, and with lashes of lightning
startle the sky from end to end.
But call back, my lord,
call back this pervading silent heat,
still and keen and cruel,
burning the heart with dire despair.
Let the cloud of grace bend low from above
like the tearful look of the mother on the day of the father's wrath.