Shapes of Clay

She stood at the ticket-seller's

Serenely removing her glove,

While hundreds of strugglers and yellers,

And some that were good at a shove,

Were clustered behind her like bats in

a cave and unwilling to speak their love.

At night she still stood at that window

Endeavoring her money to reach;

The crowds right and left, how they sinned—O,

How dreadfully sinned in their speech!

Ten miles either way they extended

their lines, the historians teach.

She stands there to-day—legislation

Has failed to remove her. The trains

No longer pull up at that station;

And over the ghastly remains

Of the army that waited and died of

old age fall the snows and the rains.