Two years ago,
Four years ago,
Eight years ago,
Your hands were not iris-veined,
And red, and growing shriveled,
Your voice was never like it is today
When, after tea, you say harmonious nothings
In a strange tone.
That has nothing of its old timbre.
Two years ago,
Four years ago,
When middle age was but an ugly dream
As now your youth is but a sweet brief dream
You were still lovely.
Now you sit
In the clustering twilight, and sip tea
And wonder about things you never thought of
In the old days.
Of course, you may say now,
Shrugging your shoulders,
(Once narrow as a countess’,)
“I have but grown mature,
This is all stupid—I am quite young yet.”
But—
Two years ago,
Four years ago,
I never knew you to sit at windows
And watch the people passing in the street.
The other day you spoke about
The people and their faces,
And yet, three summers past,
You watched the lilacs in the little roadway,
And laughed, and sang gay songs
You may enjoy sitting there
By a narrow window
Looking down into a narrow street,
But you never used to like to sit there in the evening.
Two years ago,
Four years ago,
Eight years ago.