So silent sky, where whistling winds let fly
the countenance of clouds on little hills,
the roads run dry; the rushing rivers sigh,
and all around mud covers empty mills.
This English June, July is creeping nigh -
we frown and cry, but heaven never stills
the rain full flooding from the gloomy sky;
we cannot bend the weather to our wills.
The summer came in April. We rely
on nature for our needs; we use our skills
to smooth the seasons' evils, and we try
to hold the winter water till it fills
our reservoirs. But now we fear they'll fall
from Ulley to the valley 'neath the wall.