Stuck in a bottle on the window-sill, In the cold gaslight burning gaily red Against the luminous blue of London night, These flowers are mine: while somewhere out of sight In some black-throated alley's stench and heat, Oblivious of the racket of the street, A poor old weary woman lies in bed. Broken with lust and drink, blear-eyed and ill, Her battered bonnet nodding on her head, From a dark door she clutched my sleeve and said: "I've sold no bunch to-day, nor touched a bite... Son, buy six-penn'orth; and 'twill mean a bed." So, blazing gaily red Against the luminous deeps Of starless London night, They burn for my delight: While somewhere, snug in bed, A worn old woman sleeps. And yet to-morrow will these blooms be dead With all their lively beauty; and to-morrow May end the light lusts and the heavy sorrow Of that old body with the nodding head. The last oath muttered, the last pint drained deep, She'll sink, as Cleopatra sank, to sleep; Nor need to barter blossoms for a bed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ASPIRATIONS OF A COUNTRY LAD by GEORGE SANTAYANA ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL THE SCHOLAR GIPSY by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: OCTOBER by EDMUND SPENSER GRAND IS THE SEEN by WALT WHITMAN |