THE MADONNA OF THE CURB
On the curb of a city pavement,
By the ash and garbage cans,
Of motor trucks and vans,
With brave but troubled eyes,
That cries and cries and cries.
But years go fast in the slums,
The pitiless summer comes.
She knows; she understands
The clutch of small hot hands.
That turns men faint and mad,
By telling a dream she had—
And ice, and a singing fan;
Just like the drug-store man.
Than the perfect robe of a queen!
The blessing of being clean.
To Belgian, Pole and Serb,
Madonna of the Curb!
The wail of sickly children
She knows; she understands
The pangs of puny bodies,
The clutch of small hot hands.