 | A Sculptor and Other Poems |  |
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AN OLD MAID.
Sitting with folded hands, that have dropt the needle and thread,
Looking athwart the fields, where the evening light is shed
On the waving grass, and whence arises the lowing of herds,
While the happy leafage thrills because of the time of the singing of birds.
Looking athwart the fields, where the evening light is shed
On the waving grass, and whence arises the lowing of herds,
While the happy leafage thrills because of the time of the singing of birds.
Sixty rings, I think, have circled her life-tree's girth,
Sixty years of the world, with its mingled pathos and mirth.
How has she taken the time since her baby-steps were set
Among the anemones' bloom, and the sweets of the violet?
Sixty years of the world, with its mingled pathos and mirth.
How has she taken the time since her baby-steps were set
Among the anemones' bloom, and the sweets of the violet?
What has she been, who sitteth with delicate lights dropping down
On the bow'd head's silver locks, and the folds of the silken gown?
Has she not walkt on the way that she chose at the gates of youth,
Bright in the graces of holiness, grand in the splendours of truth?
On the bow'd head's silver locks, and the folds of the silken gown?
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Bright in the graces of holiness, grand in the splendours of truth?
Bearing the hopes of the sowing, the gladness of those who reap;
Smiling with those who are smiling, weeping with those who weep;
Graciously grave, serenely bright, with a wisdom large and mild,
A man's clear judgment, a woman's love, and the faith of a little child.
Smiling with those who are smiling, weeping with those who weep;
Graciously grave, serenely bright, with a wisdom large and mild,
A man's clear judgment, a woman's love, and the faith of a little child.
Her heart is the little ones' nest, grown tired of the ball and the race,
They come to be rested because of the love in her beautiful face;
One silent clasp of her hand most deeply has comforted
Women and men too, whose eyes have wept for the false or the dead.
They come to be rested because of the love in her beautiful face;
One silent clasp of her hand most deeply has comforted
Women and men too, whose eyes have wept for the false or the dead.
And many a heart that bleeds for its sin, and yet could not bare
The throb of its shuddering nerves to a cold, analytical stare,
Lying lone on the wayside of life, she, tenderly bending above,
Doth soothe with the unguent of mercy, and cheer with the strong wine of love.
The throb of its shuddering nerves to a cold, analytical stare,
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Doth soothe with the unguent of mercy, and cheer with the strong wine of love.
Was there ever a pitiful cry in the depths of her gracious soul
For the wifehood's joy denied, and the motherhood's aureole?
Can her thought go back to a time when her patient footsteps trod
Among the grieving thorns, alone with sorrow and God?
For the wifehood's joy denied, and the motherhood's aureole?
Can her thought go back to a time when her patient footsteps trod
Among the grieving thorns, alone with sorrow and God?
However it be, on her face is the look of sweet content
That comes when the music of life of love and duty is blent;
And peace is hers that is more than the joy of morning prime,
And light that is greater than day, has come at her evening time.
That comes when the music of life of love and duty is blent;
And peace is hers that is more than the joy of morning prime,
And light that is greater than day, has come at her evening time.
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