Out in the Cold.
Under a bough without berries or leaves,
Where the keen winter's slave silver webs weaves,
Where the bleak, bitter blast swoops o'er the hill,
Where the swift-flying flake never is still,
Maidens three,
Here are we,
Surely not old.
Pity us,
Succor us,
Out in the cold!
New Year's morn tempted us out in the snow,
Rudely the blast came down, making cheeks glow,
Snatching at wrap and veil, seeking to hurl
Dead leaf and flake at us, tangled each curl.
Company
Maidens three
Are not, 'tis told;
'Tis not fair;
We despair,
Out in the cold.
Shelter we seek in vain here mid the storm,
Waiting most patiently some welcome warm;
'Tis but a secret to you told apart—
The shelter that we would have lies in some heart.
Sad our lot,
Blame us not,
Think us not bold;
Even Eve
Sure would grieve,
Left in the cold.
Who has not told of the tendril-tipped vine,
Breathed of the blossoms in poetry's line,
Vowed that the former needs where it may twine,
And the latter a stay where its petals may shine?
Yet alone
Here we moan
Troubles untold;
Blossoms pale,
Vine a-trail,
Out in the cold.
But hark! there are steps coming over the snow,
To set our hearts beating and make our cheeks glow;
And yet how a-tremble each one falls again,
As longing hearts ponder on flight by the lane!
Yet elate,
'Tis too late;
Eager and bold
Three appear—
Nay, are here,
Out in the cold.
