The rain! the rain! the rain! 
    And the broad stream brimmed the shores;
  And ever the river crept over the reeds
    And the roots of the sycamores: 
  A corpse swirled by in a drift
    Where the boat had snapt its chain—­
  And a hoarse-voiced mother shrieked and raved. 
    O the rain! the rain! the rain!

III.

  The rain! the rain! the rain!—­
    Pouring, with never a pause,
  Over the fields and the green byways—­
    How beautiful it was! 
  And the new-made man and wife
    Stood at the window-pane
  Like two glad children kept from school.—­
    O the rain! the rain! the rain!

THE LEGEND GLORIFIED.

  “I deem that God is not disquieted”—­
  This in a mighty poet’s rhymes I read;
  And blazoned so forever doth abide
  Within my soul the legend glorified.

  Though awful tempests thunder overhead,
  I deem that God is not disquieted,—­
  The faith that trembles somewhat yet is sure
  Through storm and darkness of a way secure.

  Bleak winters, when the naked spirit hears
  The break of hearts, through stinging sleet of tears,
  I deem that God is not disquieted;
  Against all stresses am I clothed and fed.

  Nay, even with fixed eyes and broken breath,
  My feet dip down into the tides of death,
  Nor any friend be left, nor prayer be said,
  I deem that God is not disquieted.

WANT TO BE WHUR MOTHER IS.

  “Want to be whur mother is!  Want to be whur mother is!”
  Jeemses Rivers! won’t some one ever shet that howl o’ his? 
      That-air yellin’ drives me wild! 
      Cain’t none of ye stop the child? 
      Want jer Daddy?  “Naw.”  Gee whizz! 
      “Want to be whur mother is!”

  “Want to be whur mother is!  Want to be whur mother is!”
  Coax him, Sairy!  Mary, sing somepin far him!  Lift him, Liz—­
      Bang the clock-bell with the key—­
      Er the meat-ax! Gee-mun-nee! 
      Listen to them lungs o’ his! 
      “Want to be whur mother is!”

  “Want to be whur mother is!  Want to be whur mother is!”
  Preacher guess’ll pound all night on that old pulpit o’ his;
      ’Pears to me some wimmin jest
      Shows religious interest
      Mostly ’fore their fambly’s riz! 
      “Want to be whur mother is!”

* * * * *

  “Want to be whur mother is!  Want to be whur mother is!”
  Nights like these and whipperwills allus brings that voice of his! 
      Sairy; Mary; ’Lizabeth;
      Don’t set there and ketch yer death
      In the dew—­er rheumatiz—­
      Want to be whur mother is?

OLD MAN’S NURSERY RHYME.

I.