The Question

(The Eight Ages of Woman)

With childish laugh and dainty little hand

She builds a thousand castles in the sand.

Though errant tides would wash them all away,

She can return to build another day.

Why should she weep?

When female guile and coquetry awake;

A thousand hearts are hers, for her to break.

With one flirtatious nod of curly head

She can transfix the youth that she would wed.

Perhaps she feels the surging of my heart,

The agony of hours spent apart;

Can she not sense the power of her charms

Calling me here to hold her in my arms.

Does she believe I have the urge to roam,

Bored with the bland emotions found at home.

Is there another voice she comes to dread

Is she secure within her marriage bed.

Is she afraid to turn another page,

Stepping so softly into middle age.

Though youthful passion crumbles into dust

Richer by far are loyalty and trust.

Is it the pain within her feeble frame,

Or knowing life can never be the same;

Though my old heart has ceased, despite her cries,

Does she not know that true love never dies?

This lady, lover, mistress, mother, wife

This woman I have loved for all my life

Does she believe I'd leave her on her own,

Facing a silent future all alone.

Though I no longer hold my time and place,

And cannot wipe the tears from that sweet face.

I still stand guard, and patiently I wait,

To lead her by the hand through Heaven's Gate.

Why should she weep?