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Poem by Katharine Tynan
The Little Old Woman
There's a Little Old Woman walks in the night, Singing her love song like a falling keen; The Little Old Woman is the heart's delight, With the gold crown under her hood to tell her queen. The Little Old Woman's coming up this way, Playing on her harp-strings a magic air; There's this one and that one, they may not stay, Stealing out in the night after the player. The Little Old Woman is at the door, Though 'tis a queen she is, in rags she goes, Open the door to her, long-waited for! Oh, Love and Delight you are, the Dear Black Rose. The Little Old Woman she is begging bread; She shall never go hungry while the ages pass, With the love of her lovers she shall be fed And their hearts lie under her feet in the green grass. They go from the lit board and the fire of peat And the dreams and the longing stir in the blood. Sweet to be poor with her, yea, death is sweet, For the Dear Rose of Beauty in the beggar's hood.
Katharine Tynan's other poems:
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