"Of course I was drugged, and so heavily I did not regainconsciousness until the next morning. I was horrified todiscover that I had been ruined, and for some days I was inconsolable,and cried like a child to be killed or sent back to my aunt." —Mayhew,
London Labour and the London
Even so distant,
I can taste the grief,
Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp.
The sun's occasional print, the brisk
Worry of wheels along the street
Where bridal London bows the other way,
And light, unanswerable and tall and wide,
Forbids the scar to heal, and
Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day,
Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Slums, years, have buried you. I would not
Console you if I could. What can be said,
Except that suffering is exact, but
Desire takes charge, readings will grow erratic?
For you would hardly
That you were less deceived, out on that bed,
Than he was, stumbling up the breathless
To burst into fulfillment's desolate attic.
