Robert Williams Buchanan
¶[1841-11)01]
¶734 L l z
¶THE crimson light of sunset fallsThrough the grey glamour of the murmuring rain,And creeping o'er the housetops crawlsThrough the black smoke upon the broken pane,Steals to the straw on which she lies,And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks,Her sun-tanned neck, her glistening eyes,—While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks.But when it is no longer light,The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark,And dies upon the breast of Night,Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark.