The Old Women

Sometimes, when the swift gaslight wakes

The dreams and fever of the sleepless town,

A shaking huddled thing in a black gown

Will steal at midnight, carrying with her

Violet bags of lavender,

Into the taproom full of noisy light;

Or, at the crowded earlier hour of night,

Sidle, with matches, up to some who stand

About a stage-door, and, with furtive hand,

Appealing: "I too was a dancer, when

Your fathers would have been young gentlemen!"

And sometimes, out of some lean ancient throat,

A broken voice, with here and there a note

Of unspoiled crystal, suddenly will arise

Into the night, while a cracked fiddle cries

Pantingly after; and you know she sings

The passing of light, famous, passing things.

And sometimes, in the hours past midnight, reels

Out of an alley upon staggering heels,

Or into the dark keeping of the stones

About a doorway, a vague thing of bones

And draggled hair.