’Midst the pitiless gusts of the wind and the rain.
An opaline light lit the clouds in the west,
And a cruel grip tightened the teeth of the blast;
The watcher’s stiff limbs sought a posture of rest
As she slipped into dreams of the days of the past.
Her toil-hardened fingers lay still on her knee,
And the light of the moon at the full lit her face;
The poor stricken seamstress of worthless degree
In the Kingdom of Dreams had a home and a place.
One hand raised itself, then fell weakly away;