 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
110
AN OLD STORY.
The snow falls fast in the silent street,
And the wind is laden with cutting sleet,
And there is a pitiless glare in the sky,
As a haggard woman goes wandering by.
And the wind is laden with cutting sleet,
And there is a pitiless glare in the sky,
As a haggard woman goes wandering by.
The rags that wrap her wasted form
Are frozen stiff in the perishing storm,
And she is so cold that the snow-flakes rest
Unmelted upon her marble breast.
Are frozen stiff in the perishing storm,
And she is so cold that the snow-flakes rest
Unmelted upon her marble breast.
Ah! who could believe that those rayless eyes
Were once as sunny as April skies,
And the flowers she plucked in the early spring
Loved to be touched by so pure a thing?
Were once as sunny as April skies,
And the flowers she plucked in the early spring
Loved to be touched by so pure a thing?
'T is past,—and the fierce wind, shrieking by,
Drowns the faint gasp of her parting sigh;
And lifeless she falls at the outer gate
Of him who has left her desolate!
Drowns the faint gasp of her parting sigh;
And lifeless she falls at the outer gate
Of him who has left her desolate!
Silently falls the snow on her face,
Clothing her form in its stainless grace;
As though God, in his mercy, had willed that she
Should die in a garment of purity.
Clothing her form in its stainless grace;
As though God, in his mercy, had willed that she
Should die in a garment of purity.
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |