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I A PALE and soul-sick woman with wan eyes | |
| Fixed on their own reflection in the glass, | |
| Uncertain lips half-oped to say “Alas, | |
| Naked I stand between two mysteries, | |
| Finding my wisdom naught who am most wise.” | 5 |
| Behind, the shapes and fiery shadows pass | |
| Of fervent life; no joy in them she has, | |
| But gazing on herself she moans and sighs. | |
| And yet of knowledge she doth hold the key, | |
| And Power and Pleasure are her hand-maidens, | 10 |
| And all past years have given of their best | |
| To make her rich and great and strong and free, | |
| Who stands in slack and listless impotence, | |
| Marvelling sadly at her own unrest. | |
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II Her children cluster round about her knees; | 15 |
| The hoarded wealth and wisdom of the Dead | |
| Of all past time they have inherited, | |
| And still within their hands it doth increase; | |
| Yet in their eyes in mirrored her dis-peace, | |
| Her weariness within their hearts is shed; | 20 |
| Her dreary sorrow weighs each drooping head, | |
| And each soul sickens with her fell disease. | |
| Beneath their feet lie many broken toys, | |
| They are too old to laugh, too wise to pray, | |
| Or look to God for wage or chastisement: | 25 |
| They have known all sorrows, wearied of all joys, | |
| Fed all desires, and none hath said them nay; | |
| Two things alone they lack, Peace and Content. | |
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