A song of the city’s tears;
Thin and faint, the cry of a child,
Plaint of the soul unreconciled,
A song of the passing years.
THE RAGPICKER
The Ragpicker sits and sorts her rags:
Silk and homespun and threads of gold
She plucks to pieces and marks with tags;
And her eyes are ice and her fingers cold.
The Ragpicker sits in the back of my brain;