A MIDNIGHT STORM IN MARCH.

———

BY CAROLINE MAY.

———

The storm beats loud against my window-pane,

And though upon the pillow of my bed

In pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,

I cannot sleep for the excited train

Of thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.

O, wretched poor, who have no home—or if

A home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,

For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,

Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail,

Venting your rage beneath the flag of night —

A black flag, without stars—how do they quail,

Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might!

O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad tale

Make rich hearts open with the opening light.