This world’s a world of storms. The rain
Will batter down upon your head,
Engulfing, drowning; endlessly,
It strives to swell the ranks of dead.
If I paint pitch on wood and tile,
Will you allow me to unfold
My shelter over you, to keep
You dry, my sweet, to have and hold?
--I’ll hold you when, with malice shrill,
The wind rips, eager to appal;
It comes for you, but I will stand,
A steady guard, a rock, a wall,
--A crafty subterfuge occurs
(Of which first-hand you must not learn):
The sun, which claims to kindly share
Its light, more often seeks to burn.
A shade I’ll be, and if the means
Presents itself, away I’ll fly,
For only long enough to scrub
Its smirking face out of the sky,
--The sky! The sky is full of harm,
The very air infested: count
The countless swarms of foul disease
That spring from its corrupted fount!
No lungs there are that need not breathe,
But I will build them just the same
For you, that you might have no need
To feel that foreign thing called pain;
--If elements attempt you pain,
I’ll bring the fight to them with steel;
If running from them leaves you hurt,
I’ll hold you still until you heal.
If once your path is briar-grown,
A straight and new one I will pave.
You need fear nothing in this world
So long as you are mine to save.