"The winds are bitter; the skies are wild;
From the roof comes plunging the drowning rain,
Without—in tatters, the world's poor child
Sobbeth aloud her grief, her pain!
No one heareth her, no one heedeth her:
But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand
Grasps her throat, whispering huskily—
'What dost thou in a Christian land?'
"WITHIN.
"The skies are wild, and the blast is cold,