Dorothy Hewett


Sarah, walking in the rain
With her red mouth twisted in unconcern,
Sarah, Sarah with her lovely paleness —
How much could I learn at her lips,
Of sorrow, sweet despair, of loving and dying.
Sarah, crying in the night that life is fair,
That she will neither suffer nor burn nor care
When the dust settles down so thick on her tawny hair
And the night-bird whispers ‘Sarah’…