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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. |