Within thy frozen veins, no kindling thought

Light up those eyeless sockets wherein naught

But hate could dwell if once they flashed the fire

Of being, or the doom-gift of Desire

Should curse thy life, unbidden and unsought.

Poor snow man with thy tattered hat awry,

And broomstick musket toppling from thy hands,

'Tis well thou hast no language to decry

Thy poor creator or his vain commands;

No tear to shed that thou so soon must die,

No voice to lift in prayer where no god understands!

[46]

[46]

OUR SISTER OF THE STREETS.

She comes not with the conscious grace

Of gentle, winsome womanhood,

Nor yet, withal, the flaunting face

Of men and women understood,

But rather as a thing apart,

A wind-blown petal of a rose,

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