And shrilling between wheels:
“Doctor, Doctor!
Come to the dead church—the one they don’t
Sing songs in any more. A poverty fellow
And his sick queen—not my people, but I pity,
Pity them—they lie in the carriage shed.
Or she does, the queen. In all the world
No friend, and both afraid. They have walked miles
From nowhere, and no house would take them in.
She whimpers with the young thing in her belly,