The Widow

The night which fell upon the world outside

Was not so dark as that within her soul,

The sleepless hours bringing the dread bell's toll

Forever to her ears-not to subside,

But emphasize the never-ending round

Of listless effort to provide a bare

Poor sustenance. With no one now to share,

Could death be wrong for one so sternly bound?

An oak bough brushes by the murky pane-

The sound arouses her, makes her afraid,

And she is startled into life again.

She leaves her bed to raise the limp-hung shade-

A shy wind touches her pale cheeks, and tears

Unshed begin to wash away her fears.