For a rest by the way,
On its steps; when there came
Toward the church, gray and bent,
Such a poor, weak, old dame
That I naturally went
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To her aid. At the door
Hung a curtain of hides
Thick and stiff, studded o'er
With brass rivets besides.
This I raised until she
Should pass under. The crone,
With a grace that we see
In her country alone,
As she passed bowed her head,
Pressed her lips to my hand,
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