734. Liz

THE CRIMSON light of sunset falls

Through the grey glamour of the murmuring rain,

And creeping o’er the housetops crawls

Through the black smoke upon the broken pane,

Steals to the straw on which she lies,

And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks,

Her sun-tanned neck, her glistening eyes,—

While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks.

But when it is no longer light,

The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark,

And dies upon the breast of Night,

Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark.