Poor shape grotesque that careless hands have wrought!
Frail wistful thing, left gaping at the sun
With empty grin, 'tis well no blood shall run
Within thy frozen veins, no kindling thought
Light up those eyeless sockets wherein naught
But hate could dwell if once they flashed the fire
Of being, or the doom-gift of Desire
Should curse thy life, unbidden and unsought.
Poor snow man with thy tattered hat awry,
And broomstick musket toppling from thy hands,
'Tis well thou hast no language to decry
Thy poor creator or his vain commands;
No tear to shed that thou so soon must die,
No voice to lift in prayer where no god understands!

OUR SISTER OF THE STREETS.

She comes not with the conscious grace
Of gentle, winsome womanhood,
Nor yet, withal, the flaunting face
Of men and women understood,
But rather as a thing apart,
A wind-blown petal of a rose,
A specter with a specter's heart
That cometh once--and goes.

Her eyes some trace of cold, white light
Within their haunted depths still hold,
Though hunger's fever made them bright,
And lack of pity made them cold.
We know her when she passes by,
Whom no one loves or chides or greets--
The woman with the cold, bright eye--
Our sister of the streets.

We know the tawdry arts she tries,
The tint of cheek, the gold of hair,
To mimic nature for the eyes
Of those who scorn her paltry care,
And spurn those charms--if aught abide
Within her beauty's narrowed scope--
Now touched with less a wanton's pride
Than with an outcast's hope.

We know her in the blatant crowd,
And feel her, as we feel, in fine,
The eyes' remembrance of a cloud,
The lips' faint bitterness of brine;
We know her when she passes by,
Whom no one loves or chides or greets--
The woman with the cold, bright eye--
Our sister of the streets.

THE EARTHWORM AND THE STAR.

An Earthworm once loved a Star. In the hush of the summer night,
He lay quite close to the ground and gazed on its golden light;
He looked from his house of clay, and dreamed of wonderful things,
Till, lo! (as he thought) his longing brought forth miraculous wings.

The Butterfly soared in the air, straight toward the beckoning spark;
His wings grew weary and chill, bu