The whiteness of the sacred breasts of mothers, Those pure ivory bowls of far Eternity, Which should be beautiful.
TRUTH: Civilization. Moloch insatiable.
^ POET:
My little sisters, my pretty little sisters,
With Life's morning in your cheeks ;
Your eyes asparkle with the morning stars;
Your bodies bathed in the wine unpurchasable.
My girlish sisters, trusting, smiling, unafraid ;
Chattering like children, flitting thoughtlessly, to the
market Where you yourselves are merchandise; You sell bright ribbons and your brighter selves. I have seen innocent, pretty birds walk into the trap
which shall destroy them. They twitter joyously, preening themselves, Glossy and beautiful; Turning their heads gracefully, Ere they pick up the corn which betrays them.
TRUTH: The daughters of the Poor for sale. The Devil's auction.
POET: Three dollars a week; three and a half; Four ; five ; five and a half.
Gone ! Five dollars and a half a week for all the call of • the universe!
Gone ! The thoughtless, trusting little birds. The innocent young mothers, sold at the Devil's auction. Eyes more precious than agates or sapphires. Shining
like the pools of evening. Wherein the stars dance and along the border of which
runs the liquid moon,
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