Her knotted hand, in cotton glove,
That clutched the swaying strap above,
Made idle eyes come roaming back
To her thin form in meagre black,
And question what her face might tell.
I saw her face. It wove a spell —
A waste of lean, unvaried years,
A parched plain unwet with tears,

An endless vista, monochrome,
Of home and work and work and home.
That last word mocks the fancied place
In which I framed her vacant face;
A room whose door and window close
On all who might be friends or foes;
Whence, mornings, she makes early start,
With tightly-buttoned coat and heart.