The old hag sat on the park bench, picking her teeth:
Her hat was askew over her stiffened bangs:
Her skirts were bunched together: her shoes broken.

What did Spring mean to her?
What meaning in the new grass blades and the cloudy blue of the skies?
How did the slow-rising love-hymn of the Earth sound in her ears?
What mate in the world for her?

I passed by, young and in power:
But I wished for a moment I could be inside her head,
And see what else the world means.