I KNOW A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.
By Frances D. Gage
I KNOW a beautiful woman,
But she's not of "sweet sixteen,"
Full sixty winters have come and gone.
The "now" and the "then" between.
Yet every year hath added
A something so fair and true
That to me she's the sweetest woman
I think that I ever knew. Her eye may be dimmer growing,
It hath lost the glance of youth,
But up from the inner fountains
It is flashing love and truth;
Her cheeks have not all the freshness
Of the rosebud's glowing red;
The purity of the lily,
Full blown, has come in its stead. All over her face of beauty
There are lines of days gone by—
Of holy loves and earnest hopes
That have wrought there patiently:
They are lovelier far than dimples,
For I know that each was given
To mark the years of dutiful life
That have fitted her for heaven. I never think of that woman
But my heart throbs high with love,
And I ask, "Can she be more beauteous
In the blissful realms above?"
I can scarcely in my dreaming
See her face more fair and bright;
She seems to me now, with her radiant brow,
A spirit of love and light. The poet may sing his praises
Of the glow of "sweet sixteen;"
But there's a holier beauty
Of sixty-five, I ween;
For the girlish face that's molded
By a true and loving heart,
Will brighten as the heart throbs on,
Rechiseling every part.