My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.
God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro.
God pity all the poor to-night
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.
My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.
|About the poet|
|By the same poet|
|Advice To A Girl|
|From The Woolworth Tower|
|Love In Autumn|
|In a Restaurant|
|A Minuet Of Mozart’s|
|There Will Come Soft Rains|
|Sara Teasdale at amazon.co.uk|