On the curb of a city pavement,
    By the ash and garbage cans,
In the stench and rolling thunder
    Of motor trucks and vans,
There sits my little lady
    With brave but troubled eyes,
And in her arms a baby
    That cries and cries and cries.

She cannot be more than seven;
    But years go fast in the slums,
And hard on the pains of winter
    The pitiless summer comes.
The wail of sickly children
    She knows; she understands
The pangs of puny bodies,
    The clutch of small hot hands.

In the deadly blaze of August,
    That turns men faint and mad,
She quiets the peevish urchins
    By telling a dream she had —
A heaven with marble counters,
    And ice, and a singing fan;
And a God in white, so friendly,
    Just like the drug store man.

Her ragged dress is dearer
    Than the perfect robe of a queen!
Poor little lass, who knows not
    The blessing of being clean.
And when you are giving millions
    To Belgian, Pole and Serb,
Remember my pitiful lady—
    Madonna of the Curb!