Classic Poem

The wind beats on her bitterly: the rain
Has soaked her tatters to the wrinkled skin,
Though deafened by the crowd's unceasing din
Scarce now she feels the bite of outward pain,
She torn by racking memories that remain
Or riotous days, of splendid nights of sin,
The beauty, dead how long! that once could win
All wealth and love and kisses and champagne.

The cabs ring by beneath the lines of light,
New joys and faces flash before her sight,
While she, the hag whom all men named the fair,
Besplashed with mud, bedraggled, stands apart
Remembering with dull agony of heart
The days gone by and O the joys that were!