Wandering Through An Antique Store
On wandering through an antique store
And the folks hiding in the old pictures there,
I am no judge of time immortal,
Mortal we have made it.
Yet these pictures judge it for me,
That young woman, gilt-edged frame
In the corner, smiling at me,
Can you see it?
Her life from a different history molded,
Her story of ancient telling is ended,
Selling for $35 with frame,
I must smile back.
She was blind as to whom she would become,
And me then not even born,
Not yet even in imagination,
Feel the same.
And wonder too,
If I'm to blame,
If I fear my picture hanging on a lonely wall,