At Fifteen
Her eyes were like a violet-leaf
With April dew upon it;
Her laughing lips were poppies’ grief;
Her voice was a spring sonnet.
Of corded copper was her hair.
The April sun swung sweetly there.
At Fifty
Now April meets her strangely fair,
With no spring grace upon her;
Her flowered radiance is bare.
The glow has faded, but with honor.
And yet no garden bearing bloom
Evelyn Coffey
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