SHE sits in the dust at the walls And makes cigars, Bending at the bench With fingers wage-anxious, Changing her sweat for the day's pay. Now the noon hour has come, And she leans with her bare arms On the window-sill over the river, Leans and feels at her throat Cool-moving things out of the free open ways: At her throat and eyes and nostrils The touch and the blowing cool Of great free ways beyond the walls. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPIGRAM: EHEU FUGACES by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM A VALEDICTION: OF THE BOOKE by JOHN DONNE EPITAPH FOR SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, AT ST. PAUL'S WITHOUT A MONUMENT ... by EDWARD HERBERT MOTHER O' MINE by RUDYARD KIPLING |