Little old women, my thoughts,
The snow falls from the vast,
Death and uncertainty palls
All the things of the past.
Why is my heart so chill
Under these skies overcast,
In these winters that last and last,
These winters calm and still?
You little old women who glean,
Make a bonfire of your past,
Of your reeds snapped by the blast,
And of all your barren dreams.
All that your sorrow remembers,
Burn it like dry brushwood,
And sit and warm your blood
Over the dying embers.
And mumble in grief and dejection
Of the happy days of your youth,
And empty with fingers of ruth
The spindles of blue recollection.
And when the cottage is damp
With the weeping of the night,
One of you will light,
Like a shaded, smoky lamp,
--Oh! why must I weep and perish,
And nothing, nothing forget?--
The best of memories yet,
The memory of Her you cherish.