Classic Poem

I.

In the porticoed acropolis
Uprightly stands with her sisters the stone Caryatid.
At the corner of Kingsway a man stands selling matches
With his back to the wall.

II.

How long, stonegraven maiden periclean,
Carried'st thou on thy head
the dentilled limestone rafter Atlantean?
Cans't thou stand very long, O man with the untold
burden hung from thy neck,
Tray of boxes nobody bothers to buy?

III.

Ah! easy Caryatid in cunning draperies
caught up about the waist in the Ionean style,
Expressing one knee and the undissembling breasts,
Not moved by any wind at all in the open porch,
Ready to move away.
But he nondescript
in the stale attire of our mechanised poor,
and with dead eyes,
Has no cause to go,
Seeing only hunger at the end of his search.
So he stands with his tray
of safety matches, bootlaces and yellow vestas,
Waiting for pennies and supporting our world,
Stone pillar to our multitudinous scene
With his two million brother Telamonis.
Yet he is not like the Caryatid there
formed of insensate stone for patience,
but of flesh that hungers — Strange architecture.
Wherewith have I to rejoice or be glad for the difference
I who pass to my office occupation?
So poor stands't thou, my soul, so inarticulate,
Starved on the pavement in the streets of the splendid gods.