Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch;—
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien,
Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known Sorrow: He had walked with her,
Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust;