Page:Poems Stuart.djvu/22

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POEMS

With the older women, withered and overblown,
Who have grown old more graciously than I,
In a sort of safe and comfortable tomb
Knitting myself into Eternity.
And men will talk to me because they are kind,
Or as cunning or as courtesy demands;
There will be no hidden question in their eyes
And no subtle implication in their hands,
And I shall be so grateful who have been
So gracious, and so tyrannous, moving between
Denial and surrender. To-morrow I shall find
How women live who have no lovers and no answer for life's grey monotonies.
Upon my table will be no more flowers,
They will bring me no more flowers till I am dead;
There will be no violent, sweet, exciting hours,
No wild things done or said.

Yet sometimes I'm so tired of it all—
This everlasting battle with the flesh,
This pitiful slavery to the body's thrall—
And then I do not want to lure or charm,
I want to wear
Soft, easy things, be comfortable and warm;
I want to drowse at leisure in my chair.
I do not want to wear a veil with heavy mesh,
Or sit in shaded rooms afraid to face the light;

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