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\title{Flowers and Ashes}
\date{1915}
\author{Louise Bryant}
\subtitle{}
\begin{document}
\maketitle





\begin{verse}
The swaying streetcar bulged with human freight,\forcelinebreak
~~A gust of sand blew up the narrow street\forcelinebreak
And caught it as it whirled with giddy gait.\forcelinebreak
~~The souls within sighed wearily, the heat\forcelinebreak
Was so intense it hurt their tired feet,

Their tired eyes, and hands, and tired souls.\forcelinebreak
~~It was the hour when the workers pause at last\forcelinebreak
And seek those murky, fetid, loathsome holes\forcelinebreak
~~They call their homes; if thus their lot be cast.\forcelinebreak
Poor wrecks of lives! Poor ships with broken mast!

A woman sat beside me and her face\forcelinebreak
~~Was lined with care and sorrow, as if the years\forcelinebreak
That she had lived and loved and hept her place\forcelinebreak
~~Among the workers, had been a thing of tears;\forcelinebreak
A tragic life of agonies—and fears.

And in her hand she held some flowers,\forcelinebreak
~~Old-fashioned flowers, like our grandames knew.\forcelinebreak
Their fragrance was so sweet, I minded distant hours.\forcelinebreak
~~I touched their dear, soft faces for I knw\forcelinebreak
I’d think of other flowers wet with dew.

We jogged along street after street and then\forcelinebreak
~~The woman spoke, “For my man’s grave,” she said\forcelinebreak
And then was silent. When I looked again\forcelinebreak
~~On her pale cheek there burned a spot of red\forcelinebreak
“For twenty years,” she mused, “my man’s been dead.”

“Yes, I raise flowers for his grave. You see\forcelinebreak
~~He loved the flowers and the soft green frass\forcelinebreak
And it is lonely where he sleeps and he\dots{}\forcelinebreak
~~Must miss me, want me, so I always pass\forcelinebreak
The little plot at evening\dots{}But alas!

Death comes so slow, with lagging steps\dots{}that pause\dots{}\forcelinebreak
~~Before they reach me.” “Why,” I said, “It would seem\forcelinebreak
That you could find another love\dots{}another cause\dots{}\forcelinebreak
~~To strive for\dots{}Do you have no babes\dots{}or dream\forcelinebreak
No dreams, nor see the future all agleam—

With promise?” She clutched the flowers, her thin form\forcelinebreak
~~Shook with emotion. “Because I had two\forcelinebreak
When he fell off the painter’s Scaffold\dots{}and was torn\dots{}\forcelinebreak
~~Right out of life\dots{} I knew not what to do\dots{}\forcelinebreak
I worked, I begged, I stole. And God, he knew,

I was so faint and sick in that foul air,\dots{}\forcelinebreak
~~My babes were hungry and my life was dust.\forcelinebreak
\dots{}I gave my body for them\dots{}They were fair\forcelinebreak
~~And young—with trustful eyes—I felt I must\forcelinebreak
Do all things for them,\dots{}even those of lust.

The law came down upon me with a din,\dots{}\forcelinebreak
~~It took them both away—my babes—it said\dots{}\forcelinebreak
I was a thing of shame and marked with sin\forcelinebreak
~~And babes were pure in heart and must be led\forcelinebreak
In whiter ways than mine,\dots{}who was not wed!

And I grow flowers in a little box\forcelinebreak
~~High in a window in a dark old street\dots{}\forcelinebreak
Where children never come, to smile at phlox\forcelinebreak
~~Or marigold or primrose\dots{}There I meet\forcelinebreak
Only the wretched\dots{}still my heart does beat—

For Death must very old have grown, he does not\forcelinebreak
~~Knock upon my battered door or lurk\forcelinebreak
Beside my flowers.” We rode on.—Thus have you wrought,\forcelinebreak
~~Oh, gloating \emph{“men of God” who bow and smirk},\forcelinebreak
\dots{}Call you this \emph{white} soul \emph{black}?\dots{}\forcelinebreak
~~Is this your holy work?
\end{verse}



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Louise Bryant

Flowers and Ashes



1915

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Retrieved on March 20, 2012 from \href{http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Flowers\_and\_Ashes}{en.wikisource.org}

Originally published in \emph{Mother Earth}, Vol. X, no. 4, June 1915.



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