Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TWO WOMEN, SELECTION, by GEORGE ROBERT SIMS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TWO WOMEN, SELECTION, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: To-night is a midnight meeting, and the earl is in the chair
Last Line: I'd rather be that drowned harlot than the beautiful countess may.
Alternate Author Name(s): Dagonet
Subject(s): Repentance; Sin; Penitence


To-night is a midnight meeting, and the Earl is in the chair;
There's food and a little sermon for all who enter there,
For all of our erring sisters who, finding their trade is slack,
Have time to sit down and listen to the holy men in black.

To-night is a midnight meeting, and in from the filthy street
They are bringing the wretched wantons who sin for a crust to eat;
There's cake to be had, and coffee, as well as the brimstone tracts
That paint in such flaming colours the end of their evil acts.

To-night is a midnight meeting, and out of the rain and dirt
There creeps in a sinful woman — drenched is her draggled skirt,
Drenched are the gaudy feathers that droop in her shapeless hat,
And her hair hangs over her shoulders in a wet, untidy mat.

She hears of the fiery furnace that waits for the wicked dead;
Of the torture in store for the outcast who sins for her daily bread;
She hears that a God of mercy has built, on a sunlit shore,
A haven of rest eternal for those who shall sin no more.

Anon by the silent waters she kneels, with her eyes upcast,
And whispers her Heavenly Father, 'O God, I have sinned my last.
Here, in this cruel city, to live I must sin the sin;
Save me from that, O Father! — pity, and take me in.'

A plunge in the muddy river, a cry on the chill night air,
And the waters upon their bosom a pilgrim sister bear;
She has laved the stain of the city from her soul in the river slime,
She has sought for the promised haven through the door of a deadly crime.

To-night is a midnight meeting — a ball in a Western square —
And rank and fashion and beauty, and a Prince of the blood are there;
In the light of a thousand tapers the jewelled bosoms gleam,
And the cheeks of the men are flushing, and the eyes of the women beam.

Round in the sensuous galop the high-born maids are swung,
Clasped in the arms of roués whose vice is on ev'ry tongue;
And the stately Norman mothers look on the scene with pride
If the roué is only wealthy and in search of a youthful bride.

But fair above all the women is the beautiful Countess May,
And wealthy and great and titled yield to her queenly sway;
Her they delight to honour, her they are proud to know,
For wherever the Countess visits, a Prince of the blood will go.

The story is common gossip; there isn't a noble dame
That bows to the reigning beauty but knows of her evil fame.
She is married — had sons and daughters when she humoured a Prince's whim;
But her husband is proud of her conquest — the Prince is a friend to
him.

The bishop who christens her babies, the coachman who drives her pair,
The maid who carries her letters, the footman behind her chair,
The Marquis, her white-haired father, her brothers, so gossips say —
All know of the guilty passion of the Prince and the Countess May.

The doors of the Court are open, and the great Lord Chamberlain bows,
Though he knows that the titled wanton has broken her marriage vows;
And all of the courtiers flatter, and strive for a friendly glance —
On her whom the Prince delights in who dares to look askance?

She is crowned with the world's fresh roses; no tongue has a word of blame;
But the woman who falls from hunger is a thing too foul to name.
She is blessed who barters her honour just for a prince's smile;
The vice of the Court is charming, and the vice of the alley vile.

So, world, shall it be for ever — this hunting the street girl down,
While you honour the titled Phryne, and hold her in high renown;
But when, at the great uprising, they meet for the Judgment Day,
I'd rather be that drowned harlot than the beautiful Countess May.





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