Yet she was beautiful at forty years, Some years a widow then and very rich. She was most fresh and matronly at fifty. At fifty-five and sixty she could charm A man of any age. And master-men Paid suit to her and gained The stimulating richness of her mind. Some said they did not want her, others said Her wisdom and self-mastery froze their hearts. But when she spoke she said she could not change The name she loved, or change her place in life To forced forgetfulness of that English face, Who lifted up her life from some obscurity And made it flower. At any rate she lived for forty years With only maids and butlers in a house Round which the warring city crept, Until at last the street with lowered pulse Saw vacant mansions, as the mob psychology, Which sways in fashion, brought an exodus. But she knew no temptation to depart. This was her house, her center of the world. And when the Countess left the Count she came To ease her mother’s loneliness--oh yes! Six months of loneliness was quite enough. And then in spite of everything she left, Returned to Florence and her rascal count, Because she could not stand the loneliness, And saw ahead long years of loneliness In some bay window--no, it could not be! And so she left her mother sitting there Now sixty-eight or so, Who watched the city pass, All now the swallow-gleam of limousines, And all around her now the boarding house, Or institutes for drunkards, hideous blocks Of offices and warehouses. And all her neighbors lying up in Rose Hill. Perhaps a few remaining who remembered All that she was, could only say to those Who had heard of her as she was in the eighties, And in the nineties: “She was a great woman, I can scarce explain. It was this way: Chicago then was young. Chicago in ten years is changed all through. You see it was this way: But then you see This great two million thing has slipped away From all our hands.” And then perhaps A limousine would pass with reckless pridelings Coming from tea or dancing at the Blackstone, And find their laughter shortened by her face At this bay-window Would say: “Who’s that old woman at the window? She always has a book, or has a fan.” MAN OF OUR STREET