Gitanjali: 40

The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid
heart. The horizon is fiercely naked—not the thinnest cover of a soft
cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.
Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with
lashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end.
But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still
and keen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.
Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look
of the mother on the day of the father's wrath.