The Quaker Lady

’MID drab and gray of moldered leaves,

The spoil of last October,

I see the Quaker lady stand,

In dainty garb and sober.

No speech has she for praise or prayer,

No blushes, as I claim

To know what gentle whisper gave

Her prettiness a name.

The wizard stillness of the hour

My fancy aids; again

Return the days of hoop and hood

And tranquil William Penn.

I see a maid amid the wood

Demurely calm and meek,

Untroubled by the mob of curls

That riots on her cheek.

Her eyes are blue, her cheeks are red,—

Gay colors for a Friend,—

And Nature with her mocking rouge

Stands by a blush to lend.

The gown that holds her rosy grace

Is truly of the oddest;

And wildly leaps her tender heart

Beneath her kerchief modest.

It must have been the poet Love

Who, while she slyly listened,

Divined the maiden in the flower,

And thus her semblance christened.

Was he a proper Quaker lad

In suit of simple gray?

What fortune had his venturous speech,

And was it “yea” or “nay”?

And if indeed she murmured “yea,”

And throbbed with worldly bliss,

I wonder if in such a case

Do Quakers ever kiss?