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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Iris Barry

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Domestic

Iris Barry

SOMETIMES,

Having read

By the fireside

Through a long evening,

I look up.

The old people

Apathetically

Are sitting,

The dim eyes gazing

In the past

That seems so good.

And then pity

Dews all my sight.

For old age

Is the guerdon,

The only laurels,

Of their life.

And mine, uncrowned,

So far away,

I cannot cry

“Hail!”