Beneath yon tree sits humble
A squalid, hunchbacked house,
With roof precipitous,
And mossy walls that crumble.
Bolted and barred the shanty.
But from its must and mould,
Like breath of lips in cold,
Comes respiration scanty.
A vapour upward welling,
A slender, silver streak,
To God bears tidings meek
Of the soul in the little dwelling.