The Shroud.

The snow came softly, silently, down Into the streets of the dark old town; And lo! by the wind it was swept and piled On the sleeping form of a beggar-child.

It kissed her cheek, and it filled her hair With crystals that looked like diamonds there; And she dreamed that she was a fair young bride In a pure white dress by her husband's side.

A blush crept over her pale young face, And her thin lips smiled with a girlish grace; But the old storm-king made his boast aloud That his work that night was weaving a shroud.