The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman

The Street Player

     The shopping had been tedious, and
          the rain
     Came pelting down as she turned home
          again.

     The motor-bus swirled past with rush and
          whirr,
     Nought but its fumes of petrol left for
          her.

     The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese
     Malodorously mixed themselves with
          these.

     And all seemed wrong. The world was
          drab and grey
     As the slow minutes wept themselves
          away.

     And then, athwart the noises of the street,
     A violin flung out an Irish air.

     "I'll take you home again, Kathleen."
          Ah, sweet,
     How tender-sweet those lilting phrases
          were!

     They soothed away the weariness, and
          brought
     Such peace to one worn woman, over-
          wrought,

     That she forgot the things which vexed
          her so:
     The too outrageous price of calico,

     The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence
     Because she paused to count the dwindling
          pence.

     The player stopped. But the rapt vision
          stayed.
     That woman faced life's worries unafraid.

     The sugar shortage now had ceased to be
     An insurmountable calamity.

     Her kingdom was not bacon, no, nor
          butter,
     But things more costly still, too rare to
          utter.

     And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall,
     The sun set gloriously, after all.