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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! . . ." |