Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
RainFrances Shaw
On the white wall of the day.
I close my eyes against it
For a vision cool and gray.
She sweeps across the plain
And wraps me in her softness—
O Rain, my mother Rain!
A soft gray wall of rain
Shuts all the world away—
The voices of the toilers,
The urgent thoughts of day.
As silence or as night
It closes me about,
And shields me in a solitude
That shuts the loud world out.
Or where the winds blow free;
I love the folds of rain,
The mist enclosing me.