William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1920.

Sonnet

LIKE wine grown stale, the street-lamp’s pallor seeks

The wilted anger of her scarlet lips,

And bitter, evanescent finger-tips

Of unsaid questions play upon her cheeks.

She sways a little, and her tired breath,

Fumbling at the crucifix of her mind,

Draws out the aged nails, now dull and kind,

That once were sharp loves hardening in their death.

And so a dumb joy tips her sudden smiles

At passing men who eye her wonderingly

And hurry on because her face is old.

They merely think her clumsy in her wiles:

They know not that her face is dizzily

At rest because old memories have grown cold.

The Dial