A pleasant scent is on the steamy air
Of oils and herbs and soap. Women half sleep
Before the lighted mirrors while their hair
Is brushed, or while deft fingers ply and creep
Over face-muscles or a sagging throat,
That shows a little yellowish when bare. —
The room is still, a sunny blind is drawn,
A chair shifts, or one voice remote
Drones gossip through a smothered yawn;
A young girl smiles, tilts up a lovely head
In a rare way, that makes the attendant note
How she would lie in bed.

Matrons are here, erect, well-cared-for, dressed
To flash, for all who look, the best
That may be had in living —
Furs, motors, servants, warmth and ease,
All taking, little giving;
Women cast in a mould half perfume, paste,
Passionate, idle, kind, in varying degrees,
Their souls in stays, upright and firmly laced.
And there are old-maids, frail and over-bred,
With long-boned hands that twist a silver chain,
While puffy blondes decide to have, " Instead
Of gold this time, a bit of henna stain. "
And brave old ladies who have lost the fight,
Yet quite ignore the point,
Rustle and preen themselves, though dim of sight,
And very stiff of joint.

So they come in, gracious, aloof, serene,
And sit before the glass in a bright stall,
And face themselves, as if they had not seen,
As if it mattered not at all
How in the glass,
A certain thing, avoided and put by,
Comes more and more to pass.
They sit and turn their heads and vaguely try,
With an old gesture, an unyielding trace
Of pride — to cut, ignore, deny
The gently crumbling face,
Like a worn mask — that gently drowses here
Above a fear — a great crude fear,
A half seen thing,
Such as rude peasants know, who front the black,
Strange night, with club and sling,
Hearing draw near, by leaves and twigs that crack,
Some prowling thing!