In Progress
Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self—remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow—speaking when she had some fact to tell,
Silent with long—unbroken silences,
Centered in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
Patient at pastime, patient at her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.
