How she is careful to make manifest
The budded beauty of her breast;
To hint beneath her unconcealing blouse
The curved seductions there that house.
Would that some Christ your mournful care had seen,
Unmaidened maiden, London Magdalene.
God gave you roses warm from Paradise,
And they are bleaker now than ice.
God gave you fountains flowing honey-sweet,
And they are spilt upon the street.
All your seductions are the Dead Sea Fruit,
O rifled nest, blown flower, O string-snapt lute.
In those breast-seas no baby-boat will swim
Through channels warm and dim;
You'll not awake to a twittering in the leaves
When baby bird-throat heaves.
Poor London Magdalene, before you sleep,
Ah weep with me, if not too late to weep.