eyes the while you lean
Your silvered hair against the wood that’s silvered
too, by sun and rain,
—The butt of storms as well as we,—old aliens
crawling back to Maine.
The driving sleet, the drifting snows have filched
away the vivid red
That matched, as I remember it, the flaming top-
knot on your head.
And this—so gaunt, so bent, so small—it seems,