The cellar-door,

Now round,

Is opening.

The four-and-twenty workhouse.

There lay Oliver

By a hearth impossible.

A paralyzed kind of stray.

The voice of Mrs. Happywise,

From the cold,

Buttoning corner,

Spoke.

"Goodness has

Some shrunken tortures.

Walk the apparition.

Exercise the thoughts

Of spoons

Looking to be fed."

So he led.

The seconds provided,

And roused the prospects.

Being interposed,

The woman

Disengaged.