THE EVE OF ST. AGNES

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl for all his feathers was a-cold;
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the beadsman’s fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like piety, gave signs of life, yet death
Was in the chill and in the dark forlorn; But this is not merely a tale of the night or a lament.

• Walter Deverell