The nimble hand she holds the needles in
Is warped and wrenched by dire rheumatic aches.
Sometimes, but seldom, neighbors hear her moan,
Wrung by some sudden stress of fiercer pain;
Often they hear her pray, but none has known,
No single soul has heard her lips complain.
The parson enters, and a gracious smile
Over the poor pinched features brightly grows;
She lets the needles rest a little while;
“You’re kindly welcome sir!”—ah! that he knows.