<h2><SPAN name="chap21"></SPAN>IN IRISH RAIN</h2>
<p class="poem">
The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast,<br/>
They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best;<br/>
But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again<br/>
To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.<br/>
<br/>
The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills<br/>
The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills;<br/>
That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet,<br/>
And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.<br/>
<br/>
And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in,<br/>
Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin;<br/>
The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft,<br/>
The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!<br/>
<br/>
They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue,<br/>
But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do!<br/>
And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day<br/>
With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.<br/>
<br/>
There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before,<br/>
But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more,<br/>
But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again<br/>
To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.<br/></p>
<p class="left">
MARTHA HASKELL CLARK</p>
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