|
Out in the cold,
With a thin-worn fold
Of withered gold
Around her rolled,
Hangs in the air the weary moon.
She is old, old, old;
And her bones all cold,
And her tales all told,
And her things all sold,
She has no breath to croon.
Like a castaway,
She is quite shut out!
She might call and shout
But no one about
Would ever call back, "Who's there!"
There is never a hut
Not a door to shut,
Not a footpath or rut
Long road or short cut,
Leading to anywhere!
She is all alone
Like a dog-picked bone,
The poor old crone
She fain would groan,
But she cannot find the breath.
She once had a fire;
But she built it no higher,
And only sat nigher
Till she saw it expire;
And now she is cold as death.
She never will smile
All the lonesome while.
Oh, the mile after mile,
And never a stile!
And never a tree or a stone!
She has not a tear:
Afar and anear
It is all so drear,
But she does not care,
Her heart is as dry as a bone.
None to come near her!
No one to cheer her!
No one to jeer her!
No one to hear her!
Not a thing to lift and hold!
She is always awake
But her heart will not break:
She can only quake,
Shiver, and shake:
The old woman is very cold.
—George MacDonald.
|
