ETCHING AT NIGHT

By Clinton Scollard

I wandered in the streets of Galway-town,

When night had let her dusky curtains down,

And in a doorway, tall and fair and slight,

Framed by an inner beam of golden light,

Beheld a maiden of madonna face,

Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace,

Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years,

That hide some things that are too deep for tears!