In Progress

by
 Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she had some fact to tell, Silent with long-unbroken silences, Centered in self yet not unpleased to please, Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things, Patient at pastime, patient at her work, Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

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