Page:Roses in Rain, by Lilian Wooster Greaves, 1910.pdf/10

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And the thought would come, ’mid the smoke
and hum—
Must there evermore be strife?
Is the last decree that death must be
Ere man can Jive his life?


And I longed to rest on the peaceful breast
Of the white-robed angel, Night;
But the moon rose red, and my hopes fell
All things were touched with blight.,


A slow hour passed, and wearied at last
By the everlasting .“Why ?”
I slept awhile—then woke with a smile
For the white moon sailing high.


And I saw it all—how the smoky pall
Was only a man-made screen
That dimmed the light of the queen of night
Till she rose to a height serene.