Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The RainOrrick Johns
M
And I am dissolved upon the roads;
My heart is a rock upon a hill,
And I glimmer like white boards.
And upon the grass are shining sentinels;
And the dusk that follows the rain is as a mother to her children,
And to her moderation subdues the sharp speech.
And the oak split to its root laughs at Heaven.
The fields are dimpled like a young infant,
And the brass bowl of the sun drips honey—
The fields are open like a flaming poppy,
And the sun blooms like a rose.
O my heart!
Have you drunk your fill of the rain for nothing?
Their endless strife with God,
The spirits that are brave and strong
And will not stoop nor plod.
For God lifts high his Hell
And strikes their struggling hands to earth
And scatters them pellmell.
And wills that often veer;
God stands upon the topmost plain
And wields the sword of fear.
And drives the motor cars;
But hungry men still mock his power
As deserts mock the stars.
Who yet shirk not to be,
Withstand the onslaughts of their God
As rocks withstand the sea.