MAY be it was her littleness, may be Because she looked so frail and so forlorn, But when, in that sad place, they showed to me The shy, small stranger and I knew the morn Must pass to noon, and noon give place to night, Bringing no promise of a better day, And she so slight, so hungry for the sight Of aught to drive her misery away: Then with a sacred pity my heart bled, And seemed rebuked for all its easy years; Down on that little hand I bowed my head And cherished her; her tears became my tears. |