A city street with all it’s clanging noise,
It’s careless haste and never-ending strife
and in the midst a woman selling toys;
Gaunt, grey and old and weary of this life;
A pillared hall with shining marble stair,
And in a room a wealthy business man
With brow deep wrinkled from an age of care,
And sunken cheeks, and colour white and wan.
A negro near a tawdry picture play,
Gazing at flaring paintings of his land,
Smelling again the air of damp decay,
And longing for his surf-bound sunny strand;
A clamourous hall, hazy from pungent smoke,
And in the midst, a ring, where men have fought
And one is cheered, the other’s heart is broke,
For all his careful toil is brought to naught.
And thus, between grey dawn and even-fall,
The Book of Life is written page by page,
And lo! the pictures of this Book are all
The work of those who suffer in their age.
(R S Ward)
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Based on Topics: Life Poems, Woman Poems, Work & Career Poems, Books Poems, Age PoemsBased on Keywords: even-fall, clamourous, surf-bound