She, with her old witch-face turned upward, stares,
Frowning intent, her small hands still and folded
Upon her snow-white pinafore that shields
The fine red dress.—for this is Sunday evening.
And all is swept and garnished and demure.
The cobbled lane is clean, the court behind her
Austere and grey, save that the lingering sunbeams
Creep up the crooked roofs, and coax gay colours.
Russet and blue and yellow from the slates,—
Higher and higher scattering the bright patchwork,
Until in ruddy flame of farewell triumph
They light the chimney-stacks and disappear.

But she, with old witch-face, still sits intent.
Nor heeds the sunbeams, for her mind is strained
To listen, where adown the cobbled lane
Drifts loud the sound of music, and of voices
Echoing in song among the huddled houses.
These are the wondrous voices of her kind,
And she, shut out, listens with fierce attention.
Like some small vulture all alert to tear
The heart from out this bird of melody.
Mistily, mistily through her brain it flits
And vanishes, and peers again, and she.
Fierce in pursuit, utters a low harsh cry.
Though still she sits with old witch-face turned up.
And the deep frown set knifelike 'tween her brows.