As the year went out as a sunset goes.
But Habberton’s farm was heavy with dread,
And Elsie Habberton lay in bed,
And fought for breath with the gloom o’erhead.
For fever came, and a shadow came;
Her hot lips writhed to speak its name;
Till the sick fit passed and left her lame.
Bent as a windblown tree and weak,
But her soul was steel and her eyes were bleak.
“Wait you no more for hoofs to near?”