Classic Poem

The promises they give, alas, to fail!
They bring not to our hills and fields relief;
To distant regions onward still they sail,
Leaving the hopeful husbandman to grief.

Perhaps less earnest for the gift he prays
Than others where the rain clouds hastening go
Thus to our coast the blessing God delays
Who freely doth on all his gifts bestow.

Perhaps more needed than with us the rain,
More dry and parched than ours some distant shore,
Without its aid man's labors prove in vain,
And he his blighted harvest sad deplore.

How little still of what we need we know,
How soon we yield to doubt, or dark despair,
How are our minds engrossed with things below,
How weak our faith in God, our trust in prayer!

To us, perhaps, upon its humid wings
Already doth the wind commissioned speed
To swell the rivers, fill the falling springs
Relieve distress provide for future need.