Classic Poem

All down Jamaica Road there are small bow windows
Jutting out neighborly heads in the street,
And in each sits, framed, a quiet old woman.
These watch the couples who pass or meet,

And some have borne sons, now ageing men;
And most have seen death in their narrow house;
Heard wedding bells for their grandchildren;
Seen boys seek the bar for a last carouse;

And heard wives cry, through thin plaster walls,
And watched babies laugh in the sun, outside.
They treasure things up in their withered old hearts,
And always they sit looking out, with eyes wide.

These queer old women, they watch, as they sit,
Through the whole long day, what happens beneath
They miss not a thing. Sometimes they knit,
And sometimes dream a little, holding their breath.