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.