JEANNE BRAS
51
She tossed to the left, she tossed to the right.
The sound could not stifle nor still;
She heard the loud wail of a woman's sad plight,
And a babe in its agony shrill.
Again she rose up with her taper aflame,
And the great door all soon she unbarred;
She called through the night on her lost daughter's name,
Slow she went to the ancient churchyard.
Feeble she was and all old with her years,
By her child's grave she bent her white head;
And her poor heart it broke with the burden of tears,
And she lay there as cold as the dead.
••••••
Her ghost it still walks through the dark hours of night,
She sighs with the grief of the wind;
She holds in her hand a wax taper all white;
She seeks what she never will find.
