62
OUT IN THE COLD.
I sit in the firelight crimson and warm,
With luxury circling me round,
The soft silk of India, the velvets of France,
Fall over me, sweeping the ground,—
The dropping of fountains in crystalline cups
Wooes peace with its musical sound.
With luxury circling me round,
The soft silk of India, the velvets of France,
Fall over me, sweeping the ground,—
The dropping of fountains in crystalline cups
Wooes peace with its musical sound.
But I shiver and shudder at every breath
Of the wind as it passes by!
My hand reaches out for one other hand,—
And my lips are stifling a cry!
A cry for the Lost,—the idolized Lost!
The Lost in the voids of the sky!
Of the wind as it passes by!
My hand reaches out for one other hand,—
And my lips are stifling a cry!
A cry for the Lost,—the idolized Lost!
The Lost in the voids of the sky!
Out in the terrible cold she lies,—
Out in the pitiless rain!
Houseless and homeless,—she whom I loved
So deeply that loving was pain!
What had she done that she must be smitten?
Oh! but repinings are vain.
Out in the pitiless rain!
Houseless and homeless,—she whom I loved
So deeply that loving was pain!
What had she done that she must be smitten?
Oh! but repinings are vain.
Heaven be merciful! Heaven be kind!
While I am young I am old!
With weary ponderings over her fate,
Lying without in the cold!—
Lying so pallid, Lost! Lost! Lost!
Out in the bitter cold!
While I am young I am old!
With weary ponderings over her fate,
Lying without in the cold!—
Lying so pallid, Lost! Lost! Lost!
Out in the bitter cold!
