No suitor knocks on her door
Her hair is white and uncombed
Children think she is a witch.
Once she had been the belle of
The royal ball, spurned lovers
In her perfumed air.
Old age came creeping, first
Slowly than rapidly… and know
She is quite forgotten.
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Comments about this poem (November Song by oskar hansen )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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