Flood.

A waste of waters drowns the fertile valley.
From hill to hill the flooded shallows creep
Unstemmed, relentless. Heaven's gates have opened,
And broken are the fountains of the deep.
Yet not as winds and waves destroy—with tumult,
With clash of arms and furious battle-cry.
These waters that prevail possess the pastures
With but a choking sob, a stifled sigh.
Ah, night falls sinister on such a silence!
The wan moon tears her tattered veil of jet,
And ‘neath the glassy tide, swoons to discover,
Tangled with young drowned wheat, her image set.
And stark amid the dabble of dark waters,
Trees, half-submerged, stand sentinel; and fling
Dumb arms to Heaven above death's floating harvest
Of garnered bird, and beast, and creeping thing.
Oh, Lord: Assuage Thy waters and abate them;
And respite to Thy stricken children grant.
Set in the clouds the Sign that Thou didst promise;
Thy bow, the everlasting Covenant.

—Alice J. Waldie.

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