In Irish Rain
The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast,
They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best;
But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again
To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.
The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills
The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills;
That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet,
And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.
And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in,
Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin;
The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft,
The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!
They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue,
But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do!
And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day
With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.
There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before,
But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more,
But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again
To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.
MARTHA HASKELL CLARK