Pity old women who sit at windows Nursing the wrong and rue of the years; Munching the roots of bitter remembrance, Washing the wry past down with tears. Pity their worn and wrinkled faces, Hands that never could catch joy's wing, Lips that sag, sullen with sorrow, Or with hate and scandal's sting. Pity their eyes that live on vengeance, Dead between a stab and a stab; Or their bosoms -- passion's pillow Once -- now passionless and drab. Pity them bitter against all wisdom, Wise in all barbed bitterness, Tortured ever, and ever torturing, Loving -- and loathing -- pain and distress. Pity them as they ply their grievance, Now against children, now against friends, Old gray women, all the world over, Waiting at windows 'til life ends. |