That Is She

That is she, the wandering queen,

Grief that's larger than our own.

In the old days, she had been

Distant on her changing throne.

Standing now among the crowd

Her great image represents

All the murmur, choked or loud,

Of struggle without recompense.

Take from her the murdered son,

Or the daughter drowned in shade;

Clothed or bare, she is the one

Whose titanic sorrow made

Little our full-statured pain.

Without legend, praise or crown

Looks her steady face again

From three quarters of the town.