IN THE DARK.
O in the depths of midnight
What fancies haunt the brain!
When even the sigh of the sleeper
Sounds like a sob of pain.
A sense of awe and of wonder
I may never well define,—
For the thoughts that come in the shadows
Never come in the shine.
The old clock down in the parlor
Like a sleepless mourner grieves,
And the seconds drip in the silence
As the rain drips from the eaves.
And I think of the hands that signal
The hours there in the gloom,
And wonder what angel watchers
Wait in the darkened room.
And I think of the smiling faces
That used to watch and wait,
Till the click of the clock was answered
By the click of the opening gate.—
They are not there now in the evening—
Morning or noon—not there;
Yet I know that they keep their vigil,
And wait for me Somewhere.
WET WEATHER TALK.
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
Men giner'ly, to all intents—
Although they're ap' to grumble some—
Puts most their trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come;—
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me,
Has watched the world enough to learn
They're not the boss of the concern.
With some, of course, it's different—
I've seed young men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestial ball!
But, all the same, the rain some way
Rained jest as hard on picnic-day;
Er when they railly wanted it,
It maybe wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existence, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men—
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then;
But maybe, while you're wondern' who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And want it—out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you ain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too—
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waiting round to do
Before the plowin''s done;
And maybe, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm—and jest about
The time the corn 's a-jintin' out!
These here cy-clones a-foolin' round—
And back'ard crops—and wind and rain,
And yit the corn that's wallered down
May elbow up again!
They ain't no sense, as I kin see,
In mortals, sich as you and me,
A-faultin' Nature's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.