The Poor Old Soul plods down the street, Contented, and forgetting How Youth was wild, and Spring was wild And how her life is setting; And you lean out to watch her there, And pity, nor remember, That Youth is hard, and Life is hard, And quiet is December.
The Modern Woman to Her Lover
I shall not lie to you any more,
Flatter or fawn to attain my end—
I am what never has been before,
I shall be strong as a man is strong,
I shall be fair as a man is fair,
Hand in locked hand we shall pass along
To a purer air:
I shall not drag at your bridle-rein,
Knee pressed to knee shall we ride the hill;
I shall not lie to you ever again—
Will you love me still?