Deirdre in the Street
Deirdre is dead and all her beauty blown
Like wind-swept petals underneath the thorn.
If beauty dies, then beauty is new-born,
And Deirdre met me in the street to-day,
Her hair like blackbirds' breasts, her shadowed eyes
Like hazel-circled pools beneath grey skies.
Proudly she walked as women from the hills,
Her basket full of early daffodils.
Deirdre is dead and beauty, like a smoke,
Passes its phantom way into the air.
But other women are as young and fair
Here at my elbow with soft hurried speech
She urged her wares. And in this dreary place
I looked upon a princess face to face
Backed by a hoarding fierce with garish bills,
Deirdre stood crying — " Buy the daffodils. "
Like wind-swept petals underneath the thorn.
If beauty dies, then beauty is new-born,
And Deirdre met me in the street to-day,
Her hair like blackbirds' breasts, her shadowed eyes
Like hazel-circled pools beneath grey skies.
Proudly she walked as women from the hills,
Her basket full of early daffodils.
Deirdre is dead and beauty, like a smoke,
Passes its phantom way into the air.
But other women are as young and fair
Here at my elbow with soft hurried speech
She urged her wares. And in this dreary place
I looked upon a princess face to face
Backed by a hoarding fierce with garish bills,
Deirdre stood crying — " Buy the daffodils. "
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