Mrs. Effingham's Swan Song
I am growing old: I have kept youth too long,
But I dare not let them know it now.
I have done the heart of youth a grievous wrong,
Danced it to dust, and drugged it with the rose,
Forced its reluctant lips to one more vow.
I have denied the lawful grey,
So kind, so wise, to settle in my hair;
I belong no more to April, but September has not taught me her repose.
I wish I had let myself grow old in the quiet way
That is so gracious . . . I wish I did not care.
My faded mouth will never flower again,
Under the paint, the wrinkles fret my eyes,
My hair is dull beneath its henna stain,
I have come to the last ramparts of disguise.
And now the day draws on of my defeat.
I shall not meet
The swift, male glance across the crowded room,
Where the chance contact of limbs in passing has
Its answer in some future fierce embrace.
I shall sit here in the corners looking on
With the older women, withered and overblown,
Who have grown old more graciously than I,
In a sort of safe and comfortable tomb
Knitting myself into Eternity.
And men will talk to me because they are kind,
Or as cunning or a courtesy demands;
There will be no hidden question in their eyes
And no subtle implication in their hands.
And I shall be so grateful who have been
So gracious, and so tyrannous, moving between
Denial and surrender. To-morrow I shall find
How women live who have no lovers and no answer for life's grey monotonies.
Upon my table will be no more flowers,
They will bring me no more flowers until I am dead;
There will be no violent, sweet, exciting hours,
No wild things done or said.
Yet sometimes I'm so tired of it all-
This everlasting battle with the flesh,
This pitiful slavery to the body's thrall-
And then I do not want to lure or charm,
I want to wear
Soft, easy things, be comfortable and warm;
I want to drowse at leisure in my chair.
I do not want to wear a veil with heavy mesh,
Or sit in shaded rooms afraid to face the light;
I do not want to go out every night,
And be bright and vivid and intense,
Nor be on the alert and the defense
With other women, fierce and afraid as I,
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poem by Muriel Stuart
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