Their wit, or sympathy, perhaps was spent.
Sudden, above the woman’s head there flew
A flower, a lily-bell of spotless hue,
Too pure, too modest—if the truth I tell—
Too spotless for the hand on which it fell.
Disdaining to look round, she reared her head,
And with the bold, proud look of those ill-bred
And nurtured, did she cast the flower
Down on the ground—beneath her horse’s feet,
Down on the muddy pavement of the street;