On the slippery London pavement
In a white sublunary fog
Many a person passes you,
But, appalled, you single her out.
Is her forehead in thorns, or dirt?
That's impossible to discern;
Are whispers of Heaven's wonder
On her lips . . . ? or a godless froth . . . !
You might say that in the mud a
Book of the Bible is reeling,
Which no one reaches for these days,
It's no time to think of virtue! . . .
Despair and money -- these two words --
Flash upon the scales of her eyes.
Whence comes she? . . . She keeps the secret;
Where goes she? . . . doubtless to a void.
Humanity is like that shrew
Who weeps today and derides;
-- What of history? . . . she knows only: "of blood! . . . "
What of community? . . . just: "of money! . . ."