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To the Woman I will Be Fifty Years Hence
by Virginia Moore
When I am old and passionless
And only half awake,
Recall this wild and wistful girl,
And let your heart break.

Remember how she loved so well
Laughter and books and men,
And how her pot of ink was grief,
And beauty was her pen.

How twilight stepping velvetly
Along a cluttered street,
Blurred in her eyes, put quietness
Like sandals on her feet.

How one November night she ran,
As if her heart would split,
Head-on into a crowd of stars,
For the very joy of it.

And how she shuddered at loose flesh,
And blood thinned out, and death,
And passionately wept for you
Unscorched by passion's breath.


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