| SHE’D look upon us, if she could, | |
| As hard as Rhadamanthus would; | |
| Yet one may see,—who sees her face, | |
| Her crown of silver and of lace, | |
| Her mystical serene address | 5 |
| Of age alloyed with loveliness,— | |
| That she would not annihilate | |
| The frailest of things animate. | |
| |
| She has opinions of our ways, | |
| And if we’re not all mad, she says,— | 10 |
| If our ways are not wholly worse | |
| Than others, for not being hers,— | |
| There might somehow be found a few | |
| Less insane things for us to do, | |
| And we might have a little heed | 15 |
| Of what Belshazzar couldn’t read. | |
| |
| She feels, with all our furniture, | |
| Room yet for something more secure | |
| Than our self-kindled aureoles | |
| To guide our poor forgotten souls; | 20 |
| But when we have explained that grace | |
| Dwells now in doing for the race, | |
| She nods—as if she were relieved; | |
| Almost as if she were deceived. | |
| |
| She frowns at much of what she hears, | 25 |
| And shakes her head, and has her fears; | |
| Though none may know, by any chance, | |
| What rose-leaf ashes of romance | |
| Are faintly stirred by later days | |
| That would be well enough, she says, | 30 |
| If only people were more wise, | |
| And grown-up children used their eyes. | |
