The soft, grey garment of the rushing rain
Veils in the lonely, Sunday streets afar,
The passengers sit dumb within the car—
Slow drops slip wearily down the window-pane.

A funeral procession takes its way
Across the tracks, the car stands still a space,
All eyes are turned and every anxious face,—
Save one, that laughs oblivious of delay.

Holding her baby close against her breast,
The heart of love, too glad to comprehend,
And Life at war with Death until the end,
The mother throned serene amid the rest.