Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Circling about the tree-tops for an hour
Before they dive into their nests.
Have you heard of Marian?
They say no one can know
Where she has sunk since Thorn, your friend,
Left her and his debts together.”
She had no wit, no management,
It might have been presaged;—
I fear she never will retrieve;
She meets the rapids in the stream:
The world's eye now will turn on her
Like slingers from an old town-wall
Inflicting useless wounds.”

While thus they ride and speculate
On her fate with listless ease,
Where is she, and what doth she?
Can we find her if we search?
Venture down that lane, for guide
Take the policeman. In that house
Where lights flare all night long,

Here ye her voice, like lyre-strings once,
Now screaming in spite and rage.
'Tis Sunday morning, almost day,
Though pale and cold and blue:
Hovering pigeons venture down
On the noiseless streets to glean;
The steeple-clock chimes slow and loud;
Doth she sit still, or hath she slunk
To her couch to wake or sleep?
Neither; she snores upon the floor,
With the flask beside her head.