Old Jane

I love old women best, I think :
She knows a friend in me, —
Old Jane, who totters on the brink
Of God's Eternity ;

Whose limbs are stiff, whose cheek is lean,
Whose eyes look up, afraid ;
Though you may gather she has been
A little laughing maid.

Once had she with her doll what times,
And with her skipping-rope !
Her head was full of lovers' rhymes,
Once, and her heart of hope ;

Who, now, with eyes as sad as sweet, —
I love to look on her, —
At corner of the gusty street,
Asks, ' Buy a pencil, Sir ? '

Her smile is as the litten West,
Nigh-while the sun is gone ;
She is more fain to be at rest
Than here to linger on :

Beneath her lids the pictures flit
Of memories far-away :
Her look has not a hint in it
Of what she sees to-day.