Page:Wine and Roses (IA wineroses00dale).pdf/107

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THE WOMAN AT THE WASHTUB


The Woman at the Washtub,
She works till fall of night;
With soap, and suds and soda
Her hands are wrinkled white.
Her diamonds are the sparkles
The copper-fire supplies;
Her opals are the bubbles
That from the suds arise.

The Woman at the Washtub
Has lost the charm of youth;
Her hair is rough and homely,
Her figure is uncouth;
Her temper is like thunder,
With no one she agrees—
The children of the alley
They cling around her knees.

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