Classic Poem

She is so old she may not spin;
All day she sitShere in the sun
And speaks no word. The children play
Across the threshold, out and in,
But I, 'Toinette, the crippled one,
I sit beside her day by day.

The village folk go to and fro,
And nod and smile, and sometimes, too,
The cure stays and chats with me.
She is so old she does not know,
Although we say her name anew
And call her gently, I and he.

The parish poor we two, and yet
The cure says, " God's children we, "
And strokes my hair and goes his way.
Then carefully, lest I forget,
I think his words again — and she
Knows what my silences would say.

Sometimes I touch her hand and tell
How the sun sets, or on the green
How the girls dance. No word I say,
Yet do I think she heeds me well.
I dare not speak lest, having seen,
The children mock me in their play.

And sometimes, though she never speaks,
I know she tells me of the days
When she too was a little maid;
And once were tears upon her cheeks,
And clasped her hands as one who prays.
And I — I knew for whom she prayed.

Rare comrades we. And all day long
I sit beside her in the sun;
The others wonder as they go —
She is so old and they so strong:
Yet I, 'Toinette, the crippled one,
More than they understand I know.