Will lade the idle breath of June:
And waken through the fragrant night
To steal the pale moonlight.
Robert Bridges.
THE FLOWER'S THANKS
Lyman Abbott
A little flower lay drooping on the ground under an August sun. For days there had been no rain. The earth was dry and hard. The little flower had held up its open mouth for rain, but no rain had come.
And now it was dying of thirst.
As it lay dying a shadow passed over the sun. The air became dark.
Heavy thunder rolled. Flashes of lightning chased each other across the sky.
The birds hushed their singing. The very leaves of the tree stood still.