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(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950 / Rockland / Maine / United States)

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An Ancient Gesture

I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day
And undoing it all through the night;
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears;
There is simply nothing else to do.

And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;
Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope...
Penelope, who really cried.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003


Read poems about / on: husband, light, night

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Comments about this poem (Bluebeard by Edna St. Vincent Millay )

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  • David Gerardino (2/1/2012 10:05:00 PM)

    Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight, VERY GOOD,

    10 person liked.
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