Geraniums

Stuck in a bottle on the window-sill,     In the cold gaslight burning gaily red     Against the luminous blue of London night,     These flowers are mine: while somewhere out of sight     In some black-throated alley's stench and heat,     Oblivious of the racket of the street,     A poor old weary woman lies in bed.     Broken with lust and drink, blear-eyed and ill,     Her battered bonnet nodding on her head,     From a dark arch she clutched my sleeve and said:     'I've sold no bunch to-day, nor touched a bite ...     Son, buy six-pennorth; and 't will mean a bed.'     So blazing gaily red     Against the luminous deeps     Of starless London night,     They burn for my delight:     While somewhere, snug in bed,     A worn old woman sleeps.     And yet to-morrow will these blooms be dead     With all their lively beauty; and to-morrow     May end the light lusts and the heavy sorrow     Of that old body with the nodding head.     The last oath muttered, the last pint drained deep,     She'll sink, as Cleopatra sank, to sleep;     Nor need to barter blossoms for a bed.