Let me grow lovely, growing old,

So many fine things do!

Laces, and ivory, and gold,

And silks need not be new.

And there is healing in old trees,

Old streets a glamour hold.

Why may not I, as well as these,

Grow lovely, growing old?

Karle Wilson Baker (1878-1960)


et aussi....

Some days my thoughts are just cocoons -- all cold, and dull, and blind,

They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;

And other days they drift and shine -- such free and flying things!

I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.

Karle Wilson Baker (1878-1960)