A woman cowering like a dog, with white and haggard face,
A broken creature, bent of spine, a daughter of Despair.
She looked and looked, as to her breast she held some withered bloom;
“Too late! Too late!… they all are dead and gone,” I heard her say.
And once again her weary eyes went round and round the room;
“Not one of all I used to know…” she turned to go away…
But quick I saw the old man start: “Ah no!” he cried, “not all.
Oh Marie Toro, queen of queens, don’t you remember Paul?”
“Oh Marie, Marie Toro, in my garret next the sky,
Where many a day and night I’ve crouched with not a crust to eat,
A picture hangs upon the wall a fortune couldn’t buy,
A portrait of a girl whose face is pure and angel-sweet.”
Sadly the woman looked at him: “Alas! it’s true,” she said;
“That little maid, I knew her once. It’s long ago–she's dead.”
He went to her; he laid his hand upon her wasted arm:
“Oh, Marie Toro, come with me, though poor and sick am I.
