A specter with a specter's heart

That cometh once—and goes.

Her eyes some trace of cold, white light

Within their haunted depths still hold,

Though hunger's fever made them bright,

And lack of pity made them cold.

We know her when she passes by,

Whom no one loves or chides or greets—

The woman with the cold, bright eye—

Our sister of the streets.

We know the tawdry arts she tries,

The tint of cheek, the gold of hair,

To mimic nature for the eyes

Of those who scorn her paltry care,

And spurn those charms—if aught abide

Within her beauty's narrowed scope—

Now touched with less a wanton's pride

Than with an outcast's hope.

[47]

We know her in the blatant crowd,

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