A brown-skinned woman with sad, dark eyes
Looks on her child at his play, and sighs,
Knowing well she will hark in vain
For her husband's step at the door again.
Or watch, as the trains steam back and forth,
For his mogul engine out of the North.
So it is that when evening falls,
Draping the dull adobe walls
Fold on fold in its tender mist,
Purple and blue and amethyst,