Page:Dora Sigerson Shorter - New Poems.djvu/43

 She pointed where upon the hill There frowned the old grey convent wall, And there I saw half pictured still, A holy cross rise red and tall.

Down on her knees the fair child bent, "And pity her, dear Lord," she cried— On through the vale the strange stream went. "Ah! pity me, dear Lord," it sighed.