Frances Shaw
Reading edition
WHO LOVES THE RAIN
Who loves the rain
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes,
Him will I follow through the storm;
And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;
Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,
Who loves the rain,
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes.
THE HARP OF THE WIND
My house stands high—
Where the harp of the wind
Plays all day,
Plays all night;
And the city light
Is far away.
Where hangs the harp that the winds play?—
High in the air—
Over the sea?
The long straight streets of the far-away town,
Where the lines of light go sweeping down,
Are the strings of its minstrelsy.
And the harp of the wind
Gives to the wind
A song of the city’s tears;
Thin and faint, the cry of a child,
Plaint of the soul unreconciled,
A song of the passing years.
305
THE RAGPICKER
The Ragpicker sits and sorts her rags:
Silk and homespun and threads of gold
She plucks to pieces and marks with tags;
And her eyes are ice and her fingers cold.
The Ragpicker sits in the back of my brain;
Keenly she looks me through and through.
One flaming shred I have hidden away—
She shall not have my love for you.
COLOGNE CATHEDRAL
The little white prayers
Of Elspeth Fry
Float up the arches
Into the sky.
A little black bird
On the belfry high
Pecks at them
As they go by.
STAR THOUGHT
I shall see a star tonight
From a distant mountain height;
From a city you will see
The same star that shines on me.
’Tis not of the firmament
On a solar journey bent;
Fixed it is through time and weather;—
’Tis a thought we hold together.
306
THE CHILD’S QUEST
My mother twines me roses wet with dew;
Oft have I sought the garden through and through;
I cannot find the tree whereon
My mother’s roses grew.
Seek not, O child, the tree whereon
Thy mother’s roses grew.
My mother tells me tales of noble deeds;
Oft have I sought her book when no one heeds;
I cannot find the page, alas,
From which my mother reads.
Seek not, O child, to find the page
From which thy mother reads.
My mother croons me songs all soft and low,
Through the white night where little breezes blow;
Yet never when the morning dawns,
My mother’s songs I know.
Seek not, O child, at dawn of day
Thy mother’s songs to know.
LITTLE PAGAN RAIN SONG
In the dark and peace of my final bed,
The wet grass waving above my head,
At rest from love, at rest from pain,
I lie and listen to the rain.
Falling, softly falling,
Song of my soul that is free;
Song of my soul that has not forgot
The sleeping body of me.
307When quiet and calm and straight I lie,
High in the air my soul rides by:
Shall I await thee, soul, in vain?
Hark to the answer in the rain.
Falling, softly falling,
Song of my soul that is free;
Song of my soul that will not forget
The sleeping body of me.