Lola Ridge

(December 12, 1873- May 19, 1941 / Dublin)

The Foundling - Poem by Lola Ridge

Snow wraiths circle us
Like washers of the dead,
Flapping their white wet cloths
Impatiently
About the grizzled head,
Where the coarse hair mats like grass,
And the efficient wind
With cold professional baste
Probes like a lancet
Through the cotton shirt…

About us are white cliffs and space.
No façades show,
Nor roof nor any spire…
All sheathed in snow…
The parasitic snow
That clings about them like a blight.

Only detached lights
Float hazily like greenish moons,
And endlessly
Down the whore-street,
Accouched and comforted and sleeping warm,
The blizzard waltzes with the night.


Comments about The Foundling by Lola Ridge

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Poem Edited: Wednesday, February 8, 2012


[Hata Bildir]