Louise Morgan Sill

WHEN Betsy comes down-town,

From her remote suburban lair,

There seems to blow a brighter air;

The grimy streets seem debonair

For touching of her gown;

And under muslin frills her feet,

As tiny and as silvery fleet

As some gazelle’s, go tapping sweet

When Betsy comes down-town.

When Betsy comes down-town,

The musty volumes mountain-high,

The shelves where dust and papers lie,

Seem ill to suit a butterfly

Fresh from the meadow brown—

But when she goes a lingering light,

Reflection from the vision bright,

Makes everything divinely right

That seemed askew down-town.