BY CAROLINE MAY.
———
The storm beats loud against my window-pane,
And though upon the pillow of my bed
In pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,
I cannot sleep for the excited train
Of thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.
O, wretched poor, who have no home—or if
A home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,
For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,