A hard north-easter fifty winters long <br />Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck; <br />Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck; <br />Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong. <br />A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng <br />Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck, <br />A white vest broidered black, her person deck, <br />Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong. <br />Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh, <br />Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers, <br />The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye, <br />Ever and anon imploring you to buy, <br />As looking down the street she onward lingers, <br />Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry.<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-fisherrow/
