Poems (Probyn)/At the workhouse door

by May Probyn

AT THE WORKHOUSE DOOR.

Snow on the ground, and stars in the sky—
Was that a shadow went wandering by?
  Church bells ringing across the cold—
  Night winds sobbing along the wold—
The wind—or was it the sound of a sigh?

Clocks at twelve, and a Christmas night;
Silent streets,—not a soul in sight;
  Are these two footsteps along the snow?
  Lonely feet, that grew faint and slow,
As they left their track on the waste of white?

Blank, and ugly, and bare, and tall,
The windowless front of the workhouse wall;
  What is it lying against the stone—?
  A dog,—that was fain with its dying moan
Out of the reach of the wind to crawl?

Something that neither shivers nor sighs,
That never stirs from the step where it lies—
  Something that struggled with fingers numb
  To pull at the bell—but the bell was dumb,
And the tears sprang up 1n the haggard eyes.

Faint he dropped on the freezing stone—
Stark he lies by the door alone;
  All the bells of the town may ring,
  All the angels in heaven may sing—
None come to his rescue,—no, not one!

Flash the lantern across his face—
The shade lies thick in this gateway place;
  What, so young!—too young to be here,
  Starved and dead, in this ragged gear,
Laid at the door of the house of disgrace.

Not too young to have taken a wife—
Is she left behind him, alone with life?
  Not too young to have children small—
  Did he hear the wail of their famished call,
With his own last pang in the hunger strife?

Was there a story of something more?
Of dreams, and longings, and struggles sore?
  Is this the end of his hope, or his shame?
  We can guess nothing—not even his name,—
Here he lies dead at the workhouse door.