We are forgotten, alone on earth,
Let us silently sit by warmth’s girth.
From this corner, sequestered and warm,
Watch October’s grey mist fill its form.
Past the window, as were then, are fires;
Dear friend, we have what old age requires.
All that was, indignation and rise,
Is past. Why look forward with old eyes?
What good now is your thirst to complete
A new tale, why have new souls to meet?
Need you wait for the angel of pride?
All is gone, nothing gained or denied.
Only walls, only books, only days;
Dear friend, we are long set in our ways.
I expect nothing, no growl or mew,
And nothing of my past do I rue.
Once again in your hands is your thread,
A bright bead on a string pushed ahead.
As was once so it is, memory nears:
There was nothing quite like all those years!
Yet younger were your hands, as were you,
When you took all your silk in bright hue.
And your hands were then abler and swift,
So give now to all dimness a gift,
So that silk in your needle most fey
May chase mist with its brightness away.