Only a woman’s face,
In the dark night and cold,
But, oh! the ghost of a vanish’d grace,
And the pitiful tale it told!
Wrapt in a ragged shawl
(Why was it not her shroud?)
It look’d as white as the moon at night,
Thro’ a rift in a driving cloud.
Only a few poor pence,
And a few kind words addressing;
And all they brought was a kindly thought
And a poor lost woman’s blessing.