Fuess and Stearns, comps. The Little Book of Society Verse. 1922.
By. Silas Weir MitchellThe Quaker Lady
’M
The spoil of last October,
I see the Quaker lady stand,
In dainty garb and sober.
No blushes, as I claim
To know what gentle whisper gave
Her prettiness a name.
My fancy aids; again
Return the days of hoop and hood
And tranquil William Penn.
Demurely calm and meek,
Untroubled by the mob of curls
That riots on her cheek.
Gay colors for a Friend,—
And Nature with her mocking rouge
Stands by a blush to lend.
Is truly of the oddest;
And wildly leaps her tender heart
Beneath her kerchief modest.
Who, while she slyly listened,
Divined the maiden in the flower,
And thus her semblance christened.
In suit of simple gray?
What fortune had his venturous speech,
And was it “yea” or “nay”?
And throbbed with worldly bliss,
I wonder if in such a case
Do Quakers ever kiss?