The Eve of St. Agnes
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The opening
I.
St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem’d taking flight for heaven without a death Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.
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About this edition
- The words
- The author's text, copied word for word.
- Copied from
Wikisource
- Left out
- The source website's menus, layout and notices, in 3 places