Classic Poem

If any guest comes in to tea
Miss Ellen's gay as one could hope.
She sits and knits incessantly
Yellow and white or heliotrope.
She says,—“This happened yesterday,”
Or, “How the days are growing short,
It's scarcely five, and the sky's gray,”
“But then, of course, she's not our sort”
Then tea comes in with squares of toast,
Dusted with sweetened cinnamon,
And cakes which are Miss Ellen's boast
Whenever cakes are touched upon.
With sprightly grace she brews her tea
And fills each cup with amber light
And fragrant warmth. Then first you see
How thin her face is, and how white
The broken shadows of her hair,
And from her eyes guess what regret
Is master of that gracious air.
But then she smiles—and you forget.
And if you stay to chat a bit
You'll find her gay as one could hope;
Like silver flies the needles flit
Through yellow, white and heliotrope.
But when the room's a violet dusk,
And all the ghostly candles stir
Their airy fingers, hints of musk
Mingle with long-dried lavender.
For then Miss Ellen's knees are weighed
With a box of dark, rich-scented wood,
Where youth and vanity are laid
With all whose beauty has withstood
Miss Ellen's fading suns and snows:
Carven marvels of ivory,
Yellowing laces, ruined rose,
And fans that are filmy coquetry.
Then sometimes with a quiet grace
She'll smile at the air where nothing is,
And spreading her fan's stiff pattern lace,
Lift her hand for a phantom kiss.
And then again till late at night,
She'll sit and stare with vacant eyes
Where youth and beauty and delight
Lie hid in their scented secrecies.