At the Shrine
A pale Italian peasant,
Beside the dusty way,
Upon this morning pleasant
Kneels in the sun to pray.
Silent in her devotion,
With fervent glance she pleads;
Her fingers’ only motion,
Telling her amber beads.
Dreaming of ilex bowers
Beyond the purple brine,
Once more she sees the flowers
Bloom at the wayside shrine.
And, while the mad crowd jostles,
She, with a visage sweet,
Prays where the bisque apostles
Are sold on Barclay Street.