Beside the curbstone, in gusty whirl
Of dust and snow-drift, stood a little girl;
The piteous tears ran down her baby face;
In dumb despair she stood, nor moved a pace,
Her flying curls and fluttering short dress
Pathetic signals of forlorn distress;
Her fondling hands, all purple with the cold,
Unto her breast a china doll did hold.
“What is the matter, dear, why do you cry?”
Her chill-cramped lips made dolefullest reply:
“I am so cold, and I don’t know the way.”
That was the most her helplessness could say.
Ere long, before a laughing, ruddy flame,
She smiled through tears and shyly told her name;
I led the strayling to her mother’s door,
And in she flew,—I never saw her more.
Yet oftentimes, when Winter scoffs the sun,
She is my bosom’s guest, that timid one;
She steals into my heart and sobbing stands,
A naked doll in her caressing hands;
I see her shiver and I hear her say,
“I am so cold, and I don’t know the way.”