THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.
A baby softly nestling
’Mid clouds of fluffy white,
In nurse’s arms, with pinken charms
Quite hidden out of sight.
Or next, displayed on cushion fine,
For visitors to see,
This precious mite is brought to light
For compliments—at tea.
A lovely girl, with angel face,
And hair like molten gold,
Whose violet eyes, in sweet surprise,
’Neath ivory lids unfold
Their meeting charm, with eyebrows arched
And forehead broad and low;
And scarlet lips, where Cupid sips
The honey from its bow.
Behold, her schooldays almost o’er,
Slight, pretty and precise,
A favourite at all the sports—
And voted “very nice,”
At tennis, and at golfing, or at swimming
Quite au fait;
And all the rage upon the stage
Of amateurs at play.
At length the happy day arrives;
She at the altar stands,
Declaring that she will obey
Her dear liege lord’s commands.
The vows are said, and she is wed,
Queen of his heart she’ll reign,
And never, never make him wish
To be unwed again.
A few years flown, a little dent
Appears between her eyes;
When vexed, she murmurs, “I’m not sure
That I was very wise
To marry young, with nerves unstrung;
For me there is no mirth;
Of course, I would not change my “hub”
For anyone on earth.”
At forty, she is young again,
The children growing up,
And, what with theatres, and trips
To see the Melbourne Cup,
Pandora-like, she clings to hope
As long as it will last—
If only Time will stay his hand,
Nor sow crow’s feet so fast.
At fifty-five, too tired to walk,
And only taking drives,
The doctor says she is too plump,
Still, to look young she strives.
And well she may; why should she not?
She’s just the age she looks;
And man is just the age he feels,
Least, so it says in books.