Classic Poem

While London streets contain the crowd
Of faces marred and sad
That once were pure, and once were proud,
And once were fair and glad;

While through the gaslit London night
These lost girl-thousands stroll,
Our Empire has not won the might
Its own fate to control.

Lost souls, lost hearts, lost faces, — what
That City's doom must be
Which sees its own frail children's lot
Yet will not, cannot see!

Each pale recruit hell's armies gain,
Woman's the blame, or men's,
Stamps deep on England's robes a stain,
A spot no time can cleanse.