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Wet Nights

Edward S. Sorenson

          Awake I lay,
And listened to the drumming of the rain
          Upon the shingled roof, and far away
The roll of thunder o’er the flooded plain,
          Wind-swept and grey.

          With thanks devout
For my snug quarters and the comforts near,
          My thoughts strayed to the camps of farther-out,
Where rushing mobs I fancied I could hear,
          And drovers shout.

          Through long dark hours
I rode again in sodden saddle bent,
          Before the swishing gusts and swirling showers,
Amid the heavy nauseating scent
          Of gidya flowers.

          The thunder crash
Was blent with crack of timber and the tramp
          Of ringing hoofs, and here and there the splash
Of pools that gleamed within the wakeful camp
          At every flash.

          Hard through the wet
The panic-stricken cattle swept apace,
          And he who rode, with snares and traps beset,
Still harder had to speed to win the race,
          And risks forget.

          The splitting skies,
Ere whip and wind had waked the misty morns,
          Were mingled with the flash of frightened eyes,
The gleam and glitter of the tossing horns,
          And cattle cries.

          And while the hoofs
Of railing riders plugged among the bogs,
          We sensed a legion that amid reproofs,
On run and farm sang praises with the frogs,
          ‘Neath drumming hoofs.

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