from Sylvia Plath’s notebook 1946, age 14

The earth is parched from lack of drink

The plants are waiting in the heat,

The clouds are angry black as ink

The farmer sits upon the seat

And prays for rain.

The sky is grey and overcast

A sultry wind runs through the grain

A restful sound is heard at last–

The quiet singing of the rain

The silvery rain.

Advertisements