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The Rain

by Ruby Archer

He is coming the gentle Rain,
Riding his steed, the wind;
And over the dusty plain
Where grasses thirstily pined
Floats a sigh—
"He is nigh!"

And the thunder grumbles his name
To the lightning's questioning glance;
While the air, like a restless flame,
Quivers and glows and pants
With the cry—
"He is nigh!"