An old woman in a white apron is stirring From her
dark doorway now that it is spring: Her face is scrivened
with care; it is a wonder That she can bow yet lower than
age has bound her, Gathering her lap full of the brittle
bones Of branches fallen on the graves, and cones
Littering the churchyard. Her husband and son At work,
she gathers tinder in the sun. I had not thought she saw
the tender grass Of spring, periwinkles and violets in a
mass, But that she paused upon her homeward way To
smile at me, "Sir, what a lovely day!" And nearer came.
We stood and talked together, But only to repeat, "What
lovely weather!" Then she trudged on. Her eyes forgot
their twinkles, And her smile withered into age's
wrinkles. |