My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold tonight;
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggers pacing to and fro;
God pity all the poor tonight
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.

-Sara Teasdale