The Wise-Woman
'Tis strange, and a riddle still in my mind
To-day as well as then.
There's never an answer I could find
Unless—O folly of humankind!
O vanity born with men!
Rather it may be than merely remain
A woman poor and old,
No longer like to be courted again
For the sallow face deep lined with pain,
Or the heart grown sad and cold.
Such bitter souls may there be, I think,
So craving the power that slips.
Rather than lose it, they would drink
The waters of Hell, and lie at the brink
Of the grave, with eager lips.
They sooner would, than slip from sight,
Meet every eye askance;
Sooner be counted an imp of the night,
Sooner live on as a curse and a blight
Than just be forgotten?
Perchance.
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