I saw her first when she was old,
Her form devoid of grace;
Her locks that once were yellow gold
Were white, and on her face
Were furrows deep, which told of pain,
And toil, and worldly fret,
Which all, alas, had been in vain,
But nature claimed the debt.
Her eyes were gray and lacked in glow,
Her voice some thought was gruff,
And when excited was not slow
To use a sharp rebuff;
For she in speech was free from art;
Men feared her verbal stroke,
And yet they said, “She has a heart;
She never wears a cloak.”
Her creed, perhaps, was heterodox,
If creed she ever had.
She knew far more of pans and crocks,
But this was not her fad;
Her light, I fear, did not shine out
In pious talk and airs,
In fact I entertain a doubt
If she oft said her prayers.
Her light, if dim, was never hid,
Yet looked not for applause;
For kindly deeds she often did,
In line with highest laws.
She lacked it may be that rare grace
Which some I know endowers,
Yet good in her I gladly trace —
She dearly loved the flowers.