A saucy at of scarlet decked her head,
Set at a rakish angle, perching there,
A tropic bird, among the grizzled hair,
When, huddled up against the river-wall,
One winter day at dawn, they found her dead.

Grey flowed the river under the grey dawn,
Grey as that poor old ragged bag of bones;
Yet, pillowed for its last sleep on cold stones,
Her head still flaunted its old scarlet pride
Above the wizened face, so white and drawn —

The scarlet pride of her high girlish heart,
That once had blazed as fervent and as red
As the gay hat, when on her golden head
She'd set it, laughing with the love of life —
Nor ever guessed that life and love should part.