The Fired Pot

In our town, people live in rows.

The only irregular thing in a street is a steeple;

And where that points to, God only knows,

And not the poor disciplined people!


And I have watched the women growing old,

Passionate about pins, and pence, and soap,

Till the heart within my wedded breast grew cold,,

And I lost hope.


But a young soldier came to our town,

He spoke his mind most candidly.

He asked me quickly to lie down,

And that was very good for me.


For though I gave him no embrace –

Remembering my duty –

He altered the expression of my face,

And gave me back my beauty.


Anna Wickham (1884-1947)


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