The Whisper

What right have I to spy on pain

And of life's usage to complain?

I who have known love and ease and gladness;

What right have I to prate of sadness?

The children of my brain,

They know pain-

A crippled shabby lot,

They trail beside me hand in hand,

Longing for some happy land.

So I will make me rhymes of the blue sky,

Of meadows, and the call of man to maid,

Of rain at night, the prattle of a child.

I will not write of pain-I am afraid.

RAIN

When in the night the storm rises,

I will run before it

To the long shore,

And there await the arms

Slanting toward me-

The strong gray arms of the rain.

And I will lean on them,

And be enchanted,

And whispered to

By the soft insistent voice