Old Sadie, mop in hand, plods up a flight Of ornamental stairs to wash away Day's dusty footprints in her pail of night -- A sordid daughter of a scarlet day Grown weary and insensate through excess, Repulsive in her carelessness, and shoddy. To see her passing one would never guess That once a sculptor reproduced her body In marble. Now Old Sadie scrubs the floor Of the museum where the statue stands. She even dusts the loveliness she wore, Touching the sculptured face with grimy hands; Thankful, perhaps, that marble cannot see How base the model clay has come to be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SEA-GRAVE by SARA TEASDALE STILL FALLS THE RAIN; THE RAIDS, 1940. NIGHT AND DAWN by EDITH SITWELL CALIBAN IN THE COAL MINES by LOUIS UNTERMEYER NOCTURNE by JOHN VAN ALSTYN WEAVER THE LOST COLORS by MARY A. BARR THE ASSUMPTION by JOHN BEAUMONT |