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A FACE SEEN AT A WINDOW.
GREY bands of hair that droop towards the grave,
Still folded lips that shut in history,
Eyes that might come from where the palm-trees wave,
Shadowed with half unconscious mystery ;
Gazing and gazing, till the heavy tears
Wearily gather, and neglected fall ;
Till the pale lips drop off the chain of years,
Part, with a very child's beseeching call :
" Mother, oh mother ! " Then they close again ;
Startled, the soul draws back within its pain.
How do the angels bear it, if they hear
Only the cry that one whole city sends !
Hope writhing in the tyrant grasp of Fear,
The wail of woe that never turns nor ends.
