At The Jail

Roses rare of Malmaison,
   Eden's languid ease,
Palaces of Solomon,
Cleopatra's courts that won
   Bold lovers from the seas:
   You brew one cup of heaven
   and doom,
   (I locked her in the small cell
   room)
   He sat down on the prison
   steps,
   His head upon his knees.

The chief went home, the streets
   grew still
The town clock kept an even trill,
The battered fragment of a moon,
Was fugitive the clouds among,
A fog rose pale and chill.

To take the prisoners to the train
   I came, in breaking light,
He'd sat with head upon his knees
   On the jail steps all night.

^__Elizabeth N. Barr.

The High Winds of Home
Elizabeth N. Barr
(Olathe: privately published. 1922)
Page 16