Old Age.

The moonlight rippled in her hair Like liquid silver, jewel-cold; Her skin, snow-soft, was ivory, And the light in her eyes was old.

* * * *

And she sat in her armchair, watching the moon rise,—
Coral-cool moonlight, that streamed through the window;
And she said: "I don't think that when you die
There'll be choirs, and angels with wings, playing harps,
I don't think it'll be like that at all."
She paused, a little fearful at her words—
Surely the God of job could not pass by
Without a thunderbolt or two this blasphemy,
This shattering blow on age-old orthodoxy!
"I think I'll have a lovely little cottage,
All by myself, with nothing to worry about,
No one to ask me what I'm going to do,
Or where I'm going—I'll just please myself;
A lovely little cottage, with a garden
Full of the things I loved before I died.

* * * *

Pansies and tulips,
Slim-throated nasturtiums,
Gold-freckled berries,
And soft, pink-flushed roses;
Green-woven snowdrops
(Dew-iced in the morning)
And row upon row
Of crisp little lettuces;
Slender green vines
Twining through trellises:
Grass, clipped and scented,
And ripe swelling strawberries.
A lovely little cottage, with a garden
Full of the things I loved before I died."
She turned and smiled:
Her eyes were old, but panther-keen.
And I,
Replete with Mr. Huxley's
"Thirty tons of ratiocination,"
Striving to rationalise a lack of faith,
Was silent.

* * * *

The moonlight rippled in her hair,
Like liquid silver, jewel-cold;
Her skin, snow-soft, was ivory,
And the light in her eyes was old.

—R.L.M.