Classic Poem

Day after day she knits and sews,
Waiting for nothing—yet she waits;
Hemmed in by silence, pansy-rows,
A set of Lytton, five old plates.
There is a bird that seldom sings;
Four “classic” prints are on the wall—
Day after day she sees these things,
And that is all.

Great joys or sorrows never came
To set her placid soul astir;
Youth's leaping torch, Love's sudden flame
Were never even lit for her.
The harsh years merely made her wear
Misfortune like a frail perfume;
It hung behind her on the stair
And filled the room.

Tending her lilac grief with tears
Her soul grew prim and destitute;
An empty guest-room, locked for years,
Musty with dreams and orris-root.
The strengthening cares, the kindling strife
Of living never swept her high;
For even in the midst of life,
Life passed her by.