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

 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 dead— 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.