University of Virginia Library

“Out of my house!” a screeching tongue
Rings through the turnpike stair.
With swollen eyes, and bloodless lips
That would have uttered curses
Had she dared to speak at all,
A woman staggers into light,
And crawls away again.
She is a spot upon the sun,
A foul thing on the street,
A blight on the fields, a hateful sore
Unto her sister woman:
Without a friend, a child, a home,—
Without the power to cling to them,
Albeit she had them all.
Stand up in the face of heaven, and ask
Why art thou punished thus?
The smoke of the chimneys rises straight
And glowing in the yellow rays of even,
That strike athwart their dusky tops
And skimmer on the gilded balls of spires,
Or western windows like a holiday.
The hum of men decreases, and the sharp
Shrill tongue of childhood now is heard alone,
Until the mother from her window calls
“To bed.” On saunters Maryanne.
Once-a-time, the harvest-queen,
She bore the last bunch home,
With honesty and admiration rife
Among her followers:
Once-a-time her necklace was of gold,
Or triple gilt at least,—
When a gleam of her silken sock had drawn
The sighing furnace to a glow.

She leaned herself against the wall,
And longed for drink to slake her thirst
And memory at once.
A band of girls were at their play
Beside her; in the midst sat one,
And many hand in hand advanced
Before her and retired
At each rhyme as they sang.

She heard them as they sang, she stood
As she were dead while still they sang;
Then in her utter abandonment
She loathed their loveliness.