Part 1 — The Drought.

It fringes the furze of the parching tongue In the cheek of the fevered sky, And deepens the glare of the sun’s red stare In his dust-hung canopy. The wrinkled rivers crawl and creep O’er the sands of the sun-scorched bars, And their fetid breath like the breath of Death Floats up to the burning stars. O it’s heat—heat—heat— Till the heart throbs hot, And dust, till the eyes grow dim, And the fire-brands burn in the eyeball’s clot And whirl while the sockets swim. The white shafts shoot from the furnaced West As bolts from a blazing gun, And again from the East like a blood-red beast Bursts out the burnished sun. The crinkled air crawls o’er the earth, A snake with a withered tongue— And over the heath of his blight beneath A spume-flaked banner is flung. O it is dust—dust—dust— Till the eyeballs ache, And heat till the heart-drops run, For the brown earth burns in the butchering bake That leaps from the soul of the sun. John Trotwood Moore.