Arthur Davison Ficke - Portrait of an Old Woman lyrics

She limps with halting painful pace, Stops, wavers, and creeps on again; Peers up with dim and questioning face Void of desire or doubt or pain. Her cheeks hang grey in waxen folds Wherein there stirs no blood at all. A hand like bundled cornstalks holds The tatters of a faded shawl. Where was a breast, sunk bones she clasps; A knot jerks where were woman-hips; A ropy throat sends writhing gasps Up to the tight line of her lips. Here strong the city's pomp is poured... She stands, inhuman, bleak, aghast: An empty temple of the Lord From which the jocund Lord has pa**ed. He has builded him another house, Whenceforth his flame, renewed and bright, Shines stark upon these weathered brows Abandoned to the final night.