“Grey Day.”

Though there be wind in all the trees,
And sombre threat of rain
Has come and left, with sudden thrust,
Its tear marks on the pane;
Though purple clouds have spilled athwart
A sulky racing sky,
And harshly from the ocean comes
A sea-bird's mournful cry;
Though suns are dead, and round me steals
The coldness of the tomb,
With friendly bowls of flowers about,
There's Sunshine in my room…
—Roma M. Hoggard.