Beside the heap of smouldering fire
The poor old woman sits --
Old Madeleine with high-veined hands
And hardly any wits.
Her skirt drags down a rusty-green,
Her boots are torn and spread,
But over her thin shoulder-blades
There hangs a coat of red.
A coat that takes the light and flings
It back derisively --
A mocking note that challenges
Old age and penury!
And color-blind no longer I
See poor old Madeleine,
I only vision splendid things,
Old passions that have been!
Old pumps and gallantries of youth
Go by; her voice is drowned
In laughter like a waterfall,
In bursts of marching sound!
Gay ribbons wave from crowded walls,
Tap-tap go dancing shoon;
A stooping, long-faced fiddler plays
Beneath a harvest moon.
So gay the coat of Madeleine
Around her shoulders flung,
I know that, though her eyes are old,
Her heart is young, so young!
First published in The Bulletin, 25 December 1929
