| William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Massachusetts Poets. 1922. |
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| In Irish Rain |
| | | Martha Haskell Clark |
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| THE GREAT world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, | |
| They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; | |
| But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again | |
| To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain. | |
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| The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills | 5 |
| The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills; | |
| That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet, | |
| And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat. | |
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| And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in, | |
| Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin; | 10 |
| The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft, | |
| The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft! | |
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| They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue, | |
| But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do! | |
| And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day | 15 |
| With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way. | |
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| There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before, | |
| But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more, | |
| But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again | |
| To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain. | 20 |
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