She curls her darkened lashes; manicures
Her scented hands; rubs cream where by and by
The tell-tale lines will gather. –
She is yours,
O Dead! Who went to die
To save her light blue eyes from dreadful scenes,
To keep her dainty feet from broken ways
Her youth from Hell – now see her as she preens
Bright thro’ the weary days,
Tinkling her silly mirth against the dread
Calm of those lives who listen for dear feet
That will not come again. –
Ah! Fool! You tread
No mere commercial street,
But ground made consecrate by their spilt lives
Who stood but yesterday where now you stand
And died; or grope in the darkness; fret in gyves,
Or lack their good right hand;
Or stare with dark and witless eyes that brood
Dumbly, upon the panic of an hour
When all the world was red. –
And you are hued
Gay, as a painted flower,
Filling our days with foolishness and noise
And wooing Love with all your careful arts,
Forgetting quite the thousand, thousand boys
Who gave you their pierced hearts!
May O'Rourke
No comments:
Post a Comment