As lovely as a girl aged twenty-two
can be—intelligent, slim, self-possessed,
and beautiful. It’s Florida; it’s new
to her, like marriage. Smiling, smartly dressed,

she poses, shaded by a palm, beside
a terra cotta jar. The honeymoon
has just begun, the cattleya fresh, the bride
still radiant. Life, though, finds her out too soon,

a willing instrument. And now the horn
of age has sounded, with a mellow tone, 
yet wistfulness; her handsome heart is worn,
and on her sleeve—why not?—since she’s alone.

Time, thrifty, used her well, as she allowed; 
and she gave back, by plan, by circumstance,
from mind and body both, immensely—proud
to live the meeting of intent and chance.

—Catharine Savage Brosman