[Editor: This poem by William Blocksidge (also known as William Baylebridge) was published in Songs o’ the South (1908).]
Withered Shame
What canst thou know of pleasure, poor old crone,
Whose face foul Time with slits and dents hath filled?
Thy shrunken breast, old dame, hath surely stilled
Those fantasies to kindlier fortune known.
Was ever music in that sadful moan?
And were those misty eyes in glances skilled
To give such looks a lover’s soul as thrilled?
Dear God! is this poor creature thine? I groan!
Ah sad, how Folly’s dreadful form appears
With subtle promises of hidden sweets,
With burning wine that all the reason cheats,
With ruin foul, dark days, and empty sneers!
Those promises fulfilled are bitter tears,
And pain, for this poor crone who walks the streets.
Source:
William Blocksidge, Songs o’ the South, London: Watts, 1908, p. 48
Editor’s notes:
canst = (archaic) can (second person singular present of “can”)
hath = (archaic) has
thine = (archaic) your; yours
thou = (archaic) you
thy = (archaic) your
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