| |
| ’MID drab and gray of moldered leaves, | |
| The spoil of last October, | |
| I see the Quaker lady stand, | |
| In dainty garb and sober. | |
| |
| No speech has she for praise or prayer, | 5 |
| No blushes, as I claim | |
| To know what gentle whisper gave | |
| Her prettiness a name. | |
| |
| The wizard stillness of the hour | |
| My fancy aids; again | 10 |
| Return the days of hoop and hood | |
| And tranquil William Penn. | |
| |
| I see a maid amid the wood | |
| Demurely calm and meek, | |
| Untroubled by the mob of curls | 15 |
| That riots on her cheek. | |
| |
| Her eyes are blue, her cheeks are red,— | |
| Gay colors for a Friend,— | |
| And Nature with her mocking rouge | |
| Stands by a blush to lend. | 20 |
| |
| The gown that holds her rosy grace | |
| Is truly of the oddest; | |
| And wildly leaps her tender heart | |
| Beneath her kerchief modest. | |
| |
| It must have been the poet Love | 25 |
| Who, while she slyly listened, | |
| Divined the maiden in the flower, | |
| And thus her semblance christened. | |
| |
| Was he a proper Quaker lad | |
| In suit of simple gray? | 30 |
| What fortune had his venturous speech, | |
| And was it “yea” or “nay”? | |
| |
| And if indeed she murmured “yea,” | |
| And throbbed with worldly bliss, | |
| I wonder if in such a case | 35 |
| Do Quakers ever kiss? | |
| |
