Poem Hunter
In Progress
(5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894 / London)

In Progress

Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she had some fact to tell,
Silent with long-unbroken silences,
Centered in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
Patient at pastime, patient at her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

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Comments (1)

I cannot make my mind up- is this about a child growing up or a vibrant woman growing old? In some ways, I don't think it matters. There are huge changes in life and hopefully they are changing us into angels.