IX

Let you not say of me when I am old,
  In pretty worship of my withered hands
  Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
  Of such a life as mine run red and gold
  Even to the ultimate sifting dust, “Behold,
  Here walketh passionless age!”--for there expands
  A curious superstition in these lands,
  And by its leave some weightless tales are told.
  In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;
  I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
  Impious no less in ruin than in strength,
  When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,
  Let you not say, “Upon this reverend site
  The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer.”

        Edna St. Vincent Millay