By Luis G. Dato
Grey on its ancient rise of ground, it stands
Against the icy rain’s unceasing spears,
The streets with rich homes dotted commands -
Uninterruptedly the sky sheds tears.
A passing beggar throws a brief, bleak glance
At the forbidding door, the dripping wall;
Of hope and faith and charity, what chance
For the poor deuce, with few crumbs if at all?
But heaven weeps and floods with dreariness
Funereal the church-girding, affluent town —
What sun will rise the damp walls to caress
With light, what conscience man can call his own?
Rain copiously all day its tears has rolled
Down mossy walls the earth to saturate —
Dead to the world that shivers in the cold,
The old church stands with rain disconsolate.
