MENDICANTS

Bleak, in dark rags of clouds, the day begins,

That passed so splendidly but yesterday,

Wrapped in magnificence of gold and gray,

And poppy and rose. Now, burdened as with sins,

Their wildness clad in fogs, like coats of skins,

Tattered and streaked with rain; gaunt, clogged with clay,

The mendicant Hours take their somber way

Westward o'er Earth, to which no sunray wins.

Their splashing sandals ooze; their foosteps drip,

Puddle and brim with moisture; their sad hair

Is tagged with haggard drops, that with their eyes’

Slow streams are blent; each sullen fingertip

Rivers; while round them, in the grief-drenched air

Wearies the wind of their perpetual sighs.