You lavish your wealth on the lordly height
That knows not a miser’s need therefor,—
With a smile I must take what is mine by right
As the gift true souls abhor.
But the rain that is mine by the love of God,
By the grace of the mountain a gift to me,
Of what avail to the parching sod,
Since it runneth down to the sea?
O cloud, I charge you to right my wrongs!
Be just with the bounty of God’s own hand,