Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Preludes (1875). VI. A Letter from a Girl to Her Own Old AgeAlice Meynell (18471922)
L
O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses
What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.
O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee,
And from the changes of my heart must make thee.
Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven?
And are they calm about the fall of even?
For this one sudden hour of desolation
Appeals to one hour of thy meditation.
Of the great hills that storm the sky behind thee,
Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee.
Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder
The misty mountains of the morning yonder.
And sudden gleams the mountain-tops besetting.
I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting.
Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not,
And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not.
Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it,
And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it.
Suddenly, though time, darkness, silence hide thee,
This wind from thy lost country flits beside thee;
With thy regrets was morning over-shaden,
With sorrow thou hast left, her life was laden.
Life changes, and the years and days renew thee.
Oh, Nature brings my straying heart unto thee.
Upon the evening as the morning tresses,
Her summers breathe the same unchanging blisses.
Track one another ’mid the many mazes
By the eternal child-breath of the daisies.
To make a glory of thy silent pining,
A triumph of thy mute and strange declining.
Only one morning, and the day was clouded.
And one old age with all regrets is crowded.
Oh, hush, hush, hush! So full, the fount of weeping?
Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping?
Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter
That breaks thy heart; the one that wrote, forget her.
With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses,
With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses.