 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
39
PITY
An old light smoulders in her eye.
There! she looks up. They grow and glow
Like mad laughs of a rhapsody
That flickers out in woe.
There! she looks up. They grow and glow
Like mad laughs of a rhapsody
That flickers out in woe.
An old charm slips into her sighs,
An old grace sings about her hand.
She bends: it 's musically wise.
I cannot understand.
An old grace sings about her hand.
She bends: it 's musically wise.
I cannot understand.
Her voice is strident; but a spell
Of fluted whisper silkens in—
The lost heart in a moss-grown bell,
Faded—but sweet—but thin.
Of fluted whisper silkens in—
The lost heart in a moss-grown bell,
Faded—but sweet—but thin.
She bows like waves—waves near the shore.
Her hair is in a vulgar knot—
Lovely, dark hair, whose curves deplore
Something she 's well forgot.
Her hair is in a vulgar knot—
Lovely, dark hair, whose curves deplore
Something she 's well forgot.
She must have known the sun, the moon,
On heaven's warm throat star-jewels strung—
It 's late. The gas-lights flicker on.
Young, only in years, but young!
On heaven's warm throat star-jewels strung—
It 's late. The gas-lights flicker on.
Young, only in years, but young!
One might remind her, say the street
Is dark and vile now day is done.
But would she care, she fear to meet—
But there she goes—is gone.
Is dark and vile now day is done.
But would she care, she fear to meet—
But there she goes—is gone.
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |