From the Evening Public Ledger, August 5, 1915. By Bayard Taylor.
The rain is sobbing in the wold,
The house is dark, the hearth is cold,
And stretching drear and ashy grey
Beyond the cedars, lies the bay.
My neighbor at his window stands,
His youngest baby in his hands.
The others seek his tender kiss,
And one sweet woman crowns his bliss.
I look upon the rainy wild,
I have no wife, I have no child.
There is no fire upon the hearth,
And none to love me on the earth.