Can I cast blame for what she eats,
Or that she strolls where sunlight sleeps;
Or blame her that her skin is pale,
Whose lips are glist’ ning red as ale?
Am I to cast accusing stares
And judge her not of wheat, but tares;
Or shun her for her blood-lust bent,
The girl whose ghostly heart is rent? I saw her wand’ ring in the chill
Amidst the fog and murky rill;
And starving- writhing there in pain-
She slipp’ d into the town again.
Who knows where all that hunger led,
But townsfolk found another dead:
A victim’ s corpse left by the mill-
And yet I cannot blame her still.