The Old Woman.
Frail as winter twigs she goes;
As tremblant, too!.
Pale eyes peer blankly down thin nose;
Shuffles each shoe.
Age holds her in its palsied thrall,
Infirm and slow;
Fitful faint memories are all
She now can know!.
Impatient for her dragging time
To end, she needs
Warm-hearted kindness, and love’s breath,
To bring her ease
Along that certain, gradual decline
Which leads into the doubtful dark of death.
