I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. - Claude McKay

And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.

The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet,
A chafing savage, down the decent street;
And passion rends my vitals as I pass,
Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.