Departure

IT was not when I plead with her,
  And on a tragic day
Clung sobbing to her skirts of rose,
  That Youth went away;

O not when from the cruel glass
  My face showed, lined and chill–
Her eyes burnt wild beneath the mask,
  Her pulse hurt me still.

But when I saw young lovers pass,
  And watched them, well-content,
Nor felt my eyes grow hot with tears
  To gaze where they went . . .

O then I knew my time was through,
  And pleasured in the day,
At peace to know of Love and Spring
  And Youth gone away.

  

  
  

  

  


  
  

    

      

    
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      Return to the Margaret Widdemer library
      , or . . . Read the next poem; 
        Father Prayer