Poetry Archives

Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair,
  Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust—
  Thy star-like beauty, dimm’d with earthly dust,
  Yet breathing of a purer native air;—
They who whilom, cursed vultures, sought a share
  Of thy dead womanhood, their greed unjust
  Have satisfied, have stripped and left thee bare.
  Still, like a leaf warped by the autumn gust,
And driving to the end, thou wrapp’st in flame
  And perfume all thy hollow-eyed decay,
Feigning on those gray cheeks the blush that Shame
  Took with her when she fled long since away.
    Ah God! rain fire upon this foul-souled city
    That gives such death, and spares its men,—for pity!