The very old woman sits softly In the house of her great-granddaughter. Things are soft in this place -- The Chinese rug, the cushion in her chair, The film of precious lace That covers her wisp of hair And the silky shawl. There is nothing to do. Her small gnarled hands lie in her lap All the day through. (@3We dug, we lugged the water; We cleared, we chopped, we burned; Dawn to dark, there was work waiting Any way we turned.@1) There are soft-stepping servants within call But she never needs to call. Too many times a day A soft-voiced nurse comes Bringing soft food on a tray. There is too much to eat, Too much to wear: They push buttons for light, for heat, For a change of air: They have conquered weather. (@3Hard digging in the hard earth, Hard years together; Hard work, hard sleep, hard birth. We were hard. How can it be This softness springs From you and me?@1 The wonder in her dim eyes is deep; She gropes for the strain, the pang, the zest... But presently her sharp chin Will sink on her breast... Soon, in a soft bed, She will fall softly asleep... | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE LEAVES by HAYDEN CARRUTH ON HUNTINGDON'S 'MIRANDA' by SIDNEY LANIER THE GOLD-SEEKERS by HAMLIN GARLAND THE HOUSE-TOP; A NIGHT PIECE by HERMAN MELVILLE PRAYERS OF STEEL by CARL SANDBURG |