She saw the storm sweep down the length of the street, And the year, growing old, dash his tears on the pane; She heard the dull patter of wet little feet ’Midst the pitiless gusts of the wind and the rain. An opaline light lit the clouds in the west, And a cruel grip tightened the teeth of the blast; The watcher’s stiff limbs sought a posture of rest As she slipped into dreams of the days of the past. Her toil-hardened fingers lay still on her knee, And the light of the moon at the full lit her face; The poor stricken seamstress of worthless degree In the Kingdom of Dreams had a home and a place. One hand raised itself, then fell weakly away; So the night came apace, and the clock ticked its round: Whilst the words the white withered lips would betray Died into the Silence no mortal can sound. A voice said, “She sleeps, and the work not begun”; But a kind hand had banished “the rule and the rod”: And another voice answered, “The work is done, For her Kingdom of Dreams is the Kingdom of God.”