The sterling dignity of Stella with her
Remains, though forty years of womanhood,
The parties, love affairs, and all that glitter
Her beauty once attracted, are but wood,
Which the untidy brambles of her hair
Leap ghost-like over, and her bleary eyes
Appear not to have known; or else despair
Of ever having known, one would surmise.
A double amputee, she sits alone,
Completely self-contained; and some would say
Content, to watch her knit a blanket square.
What silence must now consummate her day,
As when the child, the woman, she had known
The place, the time, the same: the being there.
