And am filled with a sickness of my present unkind estate.

But then I remember
That Beauty's not always a star,
Not always remote, not always in lofty places,
Chrysanthemum-clad and lily-sheathed;
But often lies in the hedges
And peeps from street-corners
And lurks shyly behind broken doorways.

And I think upon the kind and considerate beauty
Of the maid with the golden curls,
And her patched, uncoloured robes of common cloth.
And with a change of mood I charge the elegant ladies
Three times the value of the articles chosen,
And thus tear from their flowery bodies
Pieces of their billowing silk
To deck the less fervid beauty of my friend.



Night and Day

The waters of the river flow swiftly at Limehouse Hole,
Past wharves, and ugly gardens,
Past beautiful steel ships and tawny sails,
Past clamorous factories and broken boats and bells.

Throughout the day these things are one--
One body of dire endeavour.