A WAIF.

Do you know what it is to be vagrant born?

A waif is only a waif. And so,

For another idle hour I sit,

In large content while the fire burns low.

I gossip here to my crony heart

Of the day just over, and count it one

Of the royal elemental days,

Though its dreams were few and its deeds were none.

Outside, the winter; inside, the warmth

And a sweet oblivion of turmoil. Why?

All for a gentle girlish hand

With its warm and lingering good-bye.