Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The Blunted AgeAgnes Lee
[The old man sips his broth and reads his paper before the fire. His daughters whisper at a window. One of them holds a letter.]
First Daughter
I
Second Daughter
She was his favorite sister—
Older than he, and very far away.
Think of it—no one with her at the last!
Better delay the telling … such a sorrow …
First Daughter
Ah, you remember how he loved our mother!
And yet, last summer, after she had died
He never seemed to take it hard at all.
He seemed too much resigned, too much himself.
It would have killed him twenty years ago!
Second Daughter
It is the age they come to. Something goes out,
Goes mercifully out. I often think
They learn to take death as they take their broth,
Their daily walk, their game of solitaire.
First Daughter
And you and I, sister? Already youth
Slips far and far behind us. Shall we, too…?
Second Daughter[Tearfully]
How can you say it? How can you say it? Oh!
First Daughter
Here comes old Nurse Lucretia up the street,
Heavy with her dull robes, and hurrying
To be the first to bear the word to him.
Second Daughter
Sign to her, wave her away, wave her away!
He has seen her close so many dead eyes!
First DaughterNo,
She has passed along, she was not coming in.
Second Daughter
Hush, he may hear!
First DaughterHis mind is on his paper.
Second Daughter
Make some good reason, take the paper from him
Before he reads … the names. Who knows but hers
Might be already there?
First DaughterIt is too late.
His finger finds the column.
The Old Man[Calling]Here! See here!
Why, Adelaide is dead! My sister Adelaide!
Daughters
O father, father!
The Old ManI suppose it’s true.
First Daughter
A letter came. Now read it, deary, read it.
The Old Man
No, let it wait. So Adelaide is dead!
Well, she was restless—go and go she must,
First to this place, then that place, till at last
She settled in Nevada. As for me,
Here I am still, and I shall count my hundred.
Well, well, well, well, so Adelaide is dead!