OUT IN THE COLD
Out in the cold,
With a thin-worn fold
Of withered gold
Around her rolled,
Hangs in the air the weary moon.
She is old, old, old;
And her bones all cold,
And her tales all told,
And her things all sold,
She has no breath to croon.
Like a castaway,
She is quite shut out!
She might call and shout
But no one about
Would ever call back, “ Who ’s there!
There is never a hut
Not a door to shut,
Not a footpath or rut
Long road or short cut,
Leading to anywhere !
She is all alone
Like a dog-picked bone,
The poor old crone
She fain would groan,
But she cannot find the breath.
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