Only a sick child peering down
At a narrow court and the world’s sad ills;
Only a poor little pallid child,
Holding nosegay of daffodils.
I saw her there in her thin black gown,
Leaning far out on the window-sill;
And as I look’d up with a pitiful smile
She smil’d, and threw me a daffodil.
Her fair hair shone like the crown of gold
Such brave little martyrs may wear in heav’n,
To whom in this cruel dark city of ours
Sorrow and suff’ring are freely giv’n.
A month ago I pass’d down the street;
‘Twas crowded and busy at close of day—
But yon wondow was shut, and the blind was drawn,
And I sigh’d as I went once more on my way.