Like wine grown stale, the street-lamp's pallor seeks The wilted anger of her scarlet lips, And bitter, evanescent finger-tips Of unsaid questions play upon her cheeks. She sways a little, and her tired breath, Fumbling at the crucifix of her mind, Draws out the aged nails, now dull and kind, That once were sharp loves hardening in their death. And so a dumb joy tips her sudden smiles At passing men who eye her wonderingly And hurry on because her face is old. They merely think her clumsy in her wiles: They know not that her face is dizzily At rest because old memories have grown cold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COMING STORM' (A PICTURE BY R. S. GIFFORD) by HERMAN MELVILLE LINES TO THE MEMORY OF ANNIE WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860 by HARRIET BEECHER STOWE A CAMEO by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE TO A MATTABASSETT (A CONNECTICUT INDIAN) by WALTER BARDECK CLIO, NINE ECLOGUES IN HONOUR OF NINE VIRTUES: 5. OF TEMPERANCE by WILLIAM BASSE CHRISTMASSE DAY by JOSEPH BEAUMONT A KISS - BY MISTAKE by JOEL BENTON WHOM EARTH HAS TAUGHT: REVELATION by MARGARET PERKINS BRIGGS |