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Show PASSE By Margretta Scott in Reedy's Mirror. AN OLD WOMAN TO A YOUNG GIRL y OU soft, white, fragrant flower P You have your hour, But clocks stop ticking, lamps burn low ; So youth will go. You see these gnarled and withered hands They've been a toast in many lands. You see these dim and watery eyes They've been bright from lover's lies. You soft, white, fragrant flower You have your hour, But clocks stop ticking, lamps burn low; So youth will go. PROUTY X WRITE descriptions of dresses for a fashion magazine They call them "captions." I speak lightly of things feminine. My own femininity is gone I haven't had time to take caro of it. My soul is a clothes-line, Strung with women's apparel And every day is wash-day. In the office they call me "Prouty" Years ago, when I first came, they called me "Miss Prouty." I was straight and strong, and not bad looking. Now, from bending over a sheet of paper from nine till five, My shoulders are rounded; From writing endless words under a bright light, My eyes need the encouragement of double-lensed glasses; My fingers are cramped From pointing out beauty for another woman's wardrobe. When you are no longer straight and strong, and not bad looking, It is a curse to have an imagination. A pink dress, garlanded with roses, Means a moon-haunted porch, swinging swing-ing rocker, a man's body leaning towards mine. Sometimes, I think tho dresses aro sharp pins Sticking into my heart. Nobody knows I am like this I am Prouty, an old maid, who wears paper cuffs To keep her sleeves from wearing out; Who eats hor lunch alono; Who writes conscientious captions. |