Classic Poem

I like to see the eager-faced old woman
Walking at sunset down the city street.
Always she holds against her heart with fervor
Her sprays of meadow-sweet.

She passes daily, and I never see her
Without the flowers she gathers to her so.
I do not know how destiny softens, hardens
The ways her feet must go,

Nor what her eyes forever are beholding
Beyond the sordid walls and grimy towers;
Nor what against her agèd heart she presses,
Pressing the meadow flowers.