Karle Wilson Baker

"Some days my thoughts are just cocoons—all cold, and dull, and blind, They hang from dripping branches in the gray woods of my mind;And other days they drift and shine—such free and flying things! I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings."

"Let me grow lovely, growing old— So many fine things do: Laces, and ivory, and gold, And silks need not be new;And there is healing in old trees. Old streets a glamour hold: Why may not I, as well as these, Grow lovely, growing old?"