By Louis Untermeyer

(American poet, born 1885)

God, we don’t like to complain—

We know that the mine is no lark—

But—there’s the pools from the rain;

But—there’s the cold and the dark.

God, You don’t know what it is—

You, in Your well-lighted sky,

Watching the meteors whizz;

Warm, with the sun always by.