More shy than the shy violet, Hiding when the wind doth pass, Nestled in the nodding grass, With morning mist all wet, In open woodland ways The Quaker Lady strays. Pale as noonday cloudlets are, Floating in the blue, This little wildwood star Blooms in light and dew. Sun and shadow on her hair, Flowers about her feet, Pale and still and sweet; As a nun all pure and fair, Through the soft spring air, In the light of God Deborah walks abroad. Her little cap it hath a grace Most demure and grave, And her kerchief’s modest lace Veils the lovely wave Above her maiden heart, Where only gentle thoughts have part. Even the tying of her shoe Hath beauty in it, too, A delicate, sweet art. Hiding when the wind goes by, Not afraid, yet shy, The tiny flower takes from the sky Life’s own light and dew, And its exquisite hue. And the little Quaker maid, Timidly, yet not afraid, Unfolds the sweetness of her soul To Heavenly control, And wears upon her quiet face The Spirit’s tender grace.
Quaker Ladies
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