Blew the cold rain in, and made tremulous
The smoking flame, on which her eyes were set;
Her raiment was all torn, and stained with blood;
Her hair had fallen, and she heeded not:
She was alone and friendless, but her eyes
Held something kingly that could outfrown Fate.
Gray, haggard, wan, and yet with dignity,
Which had been beauty once, and now was age,
She sate in that foul cellar, as one sits
To whom life owes no further injury,