IN THE TUBE

A tired, working woman, draggle-tailed,

Came in, harsh-featured in the yellow glare

Of electricity; an urchin trailed

Clumsily after her, with towsled hair,

And sharp, pale features, and a vacant stare,

And in her arms she bore another child.

A sick child, doubtless, where all three looked sick;

The poor legs hanging limply, lean and blue,

Dangled grotesquely, for the boots, too thick

For such frail bones a touch could snap in two,

Like clock-weights seemed to swing, as staggered through

The burdened mother, till she found a seat.

Through dark unnatural to unnatural blaze

Of stations rocked the train; it tore the air

To shreds and tatters in the tunnelled ways

With such a noise as when hell's trumpets blare;

We, swaying, faced our fellow-creatures there

Each mercilessly pilloried in light.

The sick child lay against the woman's breast

Asleep, and she looked down on it and smiled,

And with her gaunt arms made her bird a nest

Against her poor worn bosom — sad and mild

In such wise looked Madonna at her Child

Where old saints worshipped, round the altar set.

Such glory of the spirit shone and streamed

In that brief moment, that her form and face

Were rags of vesture only, through which gleamed

The splendour; something of wonder and of grace

Making the poor flesh lovely — all the place

Grew holy with the Mother and the Child.