POEMS
MADALA GOES BY THE ORPHANAGE.
Unaware of its terror,
And but half aware
Of the world's beauty near her—
Of sunlight on the stones,
And trembling birds in the square,
Lightly went Madala—
A rose blown suddenly
From Spring's gay mouth; part of the Spring was she.
Warmed to her delicate bones,
Cool in its linen her skin,
Her hair up-combed and curled,
Lightly she flowered on the sin
And pain of the Spring-struck world.
Down the street went crazy men,
The winter misery of their blood
Budding in new pain
While beggars whined beside her,
While the streets' daughters eyed her,—
Poor flowers that kept midsummer
With desperate bloom, and thrust
Stale rose at each newcomer,
And but half aware
Of the world's beauty near her—
Of sunlight on the stones,
And trembling birds in the square,
Lightly went Madala—
A rose blown suddenly
From Spring's gay mouth; part of the Spring was she.
Warmed to her delicate bones,
Cool in its linen her skin,
Her hair up-combed and curled,
Lightly she flowered on the sin
And pain of the Spring-struck world.
Down the street went crazy men,
The winter misery of their blood
Budding in new pain
While beggars whined beside her,
While the streets' daughters eyed her,—
Poor flowers that kept midsummer
With desperate bloom, and thrust
Stale rose at each newcomer,
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