She wears flat shoes and ankle socks; her hair
is almost captured by a clasp. At fifty-five
I wander by, and glance - not stare -
past autumn loaves and tiny vivid cakes
at her oval, perfect face.
I have seen practised smiles, but this,
repeated as may be, seems formed of grace
and innocence.My life's engaged

with the vast necessity to use
my intellect, or spoiled
with correspondence, or the news;
masked therefore beyond semblance
of wooing, and for bread alone,
I visit her surviving excellence.