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A Quaker Maid

by James B. Kenyon

She sits beneath the trellised vine
Beside the open door;
Warm arabesques of sunlight shine
Along the checkered floor.

Her busy needles wink and glance
As still her task she plies;
By bordered walks the midges dance;
Above, the swallow flies.

Her face is calm; her eyes are meek;
About her smooth young throat,
And lightly blown o'er either cheek,
The silken tendrils float.

Beneath the snow-white kerchief spread
Across her placid breast,
Unvexed by change or darkling dread,
Her spirit lies at rest.

Peace is her world; no thought of ill,
Nor breath of sordid strife,
E'er taints the pure desires that fill
Her cool hushed round of life.

Afar the city roars; there sweeps
The long white way that gleams
For other feet; she sits and keeps
Alone her quiet dreams.

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