She was a woman who even as a child Hungered for gifts with hunger passionate And in her childhood made a hard fate For a father who had failed and who was wild With a kind of laughing despair, That comes of having failed. She had plain dresses, only a little strand Of coral beads, and ribbons for her hair Bestowed by grandmama. And on her hand A ring of beads that maddened her and paled Beside the gold rings other girls could show. So she grew up out of this woe Of wanting and not having things. And round this nucleus of desire Her nature wound itself into a spire, As a vine climbs up and clings Till it becomes the tree; So she became all fire For the world’s glittering glory. Then in the process of her being’s story She married a man of riches and took over Dresses and jewels, houses, with her lover. And learned the ways of Paris and New York, And how to sit, or look, or use one’s fork. And how to speak in French, and how to dress. And how to find and use the loveliness That gold brings. And she lived where thought is white With its great longing for the infinite, Where pale youths dream and write, And starve and lie awake at night; Where sculpture, music and where painting is On priceless canvases. But none of this saw she In feeding her desire with jollity In the cafés and in society; Wherever the denials of her youth Could be made whole, or leveled up With idle splendor or the champagne cup. That was her dream of making her life truth, Till she devoured her husband like a leman-- She was at last one of this kind of women. Then as a widow she came journeying back With trunks and maids upon a New Year’s day Over her childhood’s disappointed track. Her father meanwhile had gone on the way Which was his at the start. His life was like a bruise which does not smart Now that it has grown hard. And he was stoical like one who hugs His inner self until sensation dies, Or dulls his fears or sorrows with strong drugs. There was a light of hardness in his eyes Through which no one could see his secret pain. Failure had made him so--he could explain To no one how he had been caught in life; Sometimes it seemed himself, sometimes his wife, And he had thought of it so much he lost Perspective of himself, therefore he kept Great silence, speaking little, even then But trivial things. He trod his path and slept, And rose to tread the path and slept again. He was resolved to pay the bitter cost And not cry out--his thinking stood on guard To this end chiefly. With impassive heart He wrote his daughter on a postal card To come, if it should please her, and be home On Christmas, if she could, on New Year’s day If she preferred, but anyway to come.