Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/79



WORRY me, Wind, and vex me, Rain, And use me as you will; But, should the Sun come out again, He’ll find me singing still!

To walk bare-headed, making songs And shouting them at the wind, May bring a headache—but it leaves A healthy heart behind!

Why should these tiny breaths of air Sigh, as they push along? Can it be, every one of them Is burden’d with a song?