She walks the streets offering herself for sale. Under her breath calls "Sweetheart," while her eyes Are eloquent of all a saint denies, And her slow feet nor pleasure nor toil avail. So for each fragment of the night, a male Unripe or rotten in her young arms lies -- If, uncaught, she so long her traffic plies -- Hating her bed and fearful of the jail. With day, her work being done, her stocking filled, She hastens home to place her piteous store In slaver hands -- lover, protector, hope. His lust and greed her woman's soul have killed. Slain motherhood lies pallid at her door; And soon her other needs will shrink to dope. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VISIONS OF THE DAUGHTERS OF ALBION by WILLIAM BLAKE THE LONELY DEATH by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY CURIOSITY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI: 4. THE MOON'S ORCHESTRA by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER SONG FOR JULY 12TH, 1843 by JOHN DE JEAN FRAZER POOR [OR, COCK] ROBIN by MOTHER GOOSE |