J. H.

I think of that grave woman in the dark
There by the delicate stream at the pitch of moon
Splendor encompassed by the rare serene.
Difficult life has battered her and yet
With what magnificent strength she outstands that
No matter that the brooding earth be worn.
Might I leam, wasted and much torn,
From whence she gets the laughter of her kind.
Giving and blessing, it enkindles mind
And on the heart its wisdom without rancor fiery-earned
Bestows such light that all seems round
And brought to full, like our redemptive moon.