Young Pity passed us in the street.
Her eyes were like a brook;
And golden leaf and shadow bird
Darkened and lit her look.
Her hair was like the meadow-marsh
That reaches to the sea;
And on her cheek a wild-rose glowed,
The timely rose for me!
Young Pity never knew the word
She gave to men in need,
All clear and simple, in her face,
For working ones to read.