Walk on By, Walk on Through

In Time of Gold:

Now there are gold reflections on the water,
how old am I and how have the years passed? 

I do not know your age nor mine, nor when you died;
I only know your stark, hypnotic eyes 

are different and other eyes meet mine, amber and fire,
in the changed content of the gazing-glass. 

Oh, I am old, old, old and my cold hand
clutches the shawl about my shivering shoulders, 

I have no power against this bitter cold,
this weakness and this trembling, I am old; 

who am I, why do I wait here, what have I lost?
nothing or everything but I gain this, 

an image in the sacred lotus pool,
a hand that hesitates to break 

the lily from the lily-stalk and spoil
what may be vision of a Pharaoh's face. 

H.D.