Poor supplicant begs at her master’s door for love;
for she is tired and hungry, and one kind word will feed her
for a month.
Poor sorry girl, in bare feet with her shawl pulled close.
The scars of many years’ blind doors stain her ragged face.
And he on the top step looks down
with eyes that see nothing but her dirt and fear,
and lets his cold face consign her
to a hard death in the snow.
