Amid the smell of coming rain,

the olden, greying man

lifts up gnarled hands,

to catch the brief refrain,

the solemn dripping of the rain,

that is sweeping, never creeping o’er his land.

His hands are water-stained,

wrinkled fingers reaching high

pointed up toward the sky,

and leaving with disdain,

for the power of the rain,

that is beating, ever fleeting in the dry.

O to hear his angry cry,

as he bellows and he strains

against the fury of the rains,

the lightning flashing by,

thunder rolling ‘cross the sky,

with the crashing, and the flashing of their strains.

Sudden calm, with the passing of the rain,

the storm has gone on by,

leaving new life in the dry,

greying man, he still remains,

for returning of the rains,

he is watching, and still waiting by and by.