The youth, the light the rapture Of eager April grace,— And in that sweetness, capture Your mother's far-off face.
And all the mists shall perish That have between you moved. You shall see her you cherish; And love, as we have loved.
PORTRAIT OF AN OLD WOMAN
She limps with halting painful pace, Stops, wavers, and creeps on again; Peers up with dim and questioning face Void of desire or doubt or pain.
Her cheeks hang gray in waxen folds Wherein there stirs no blood at all. A hand like bundled cornstalks holds The tatters of a faded shawl.
Where was a breast, sunk bones she clasps; A knot jerks where were woman-hips; A ropy throat sends writhing gasps Up to the tight line of her lips.
Here strong the city's pomp is poured ... She stands, unhuman, bleak, aghast: An empty temple of the Lord From which the jocund Lord has passed.
He has builded him another house, Whenceforth his flame, renewed and bright, Shines stark upon these weathered brows Abandoned to the final night.
THE THREE SISTERS
Gone are the three, those sisters rare With wonder-lips and eyes ashine. One was wise and one was fair, And one was mine.