Who are these ancients, gnarl’d and moss’d and weigh’d
This way and that, under the sluggard blue
And shine of morning—these whose arms are laid
Low to the grasses and the sheets of dew—
These bowers ruggëd within and thickly knit
But feather’d over with a roseate white
So frail that the breeze’s touch dismantles it
And brings from cradled nurseries in flight—
Snow-soft—the petals down
In shadows green to drown?
We are the matrons. Bent are we and riven
Under such years of ripeness manifold
That unto us a special grace is given,—
To wear a virgin’s beauty being old.
Noiseless we wear it; round us in the croft
These whisperers are leaves of other trees,
Babblers that have not learn’d by fruitage oft
To shade the heart with wide serenities
On tendons knit to bear
Sweetness in stormy air.