Her life was late a new-built house—

Empty, with shining window panes,

Where neither sorrow nor carouse

Had left red stains.

A passing vagrant, least of men,

Entered and used; her hearth-fire shone.

She mellowed, he grew restless then—

Left her alone.

Now she is vacant as before,

Desolate through the weary whiles;

Yet play about the darkened door

Shadows of smiles.