The Shroud
The snow came softly, silently, down
Into the streets of the dark old town;
And lo! by the wind it was swept and piled
On the sleeping form of a beggar-child.
It kissed her cheek, and it filled her hair
With crystals that looked like diamonds there;
And she dreamed that she was a fair young bride
In a pure white dress by her husband’s side.
A blush crept over her pale young face,
And her thin lips smiled with a girlish grace;
But the old storm-king made his boast aloud
That his work that night was weaving a shroud.