To some she might prosaic seem, but me
She always charmed with daily poesy.
Felt in her every action, never heard,
E’en as the mate of some sweet singing-bird,
That mute and still broods on her treasure-nest,
Her heart’s fond hope hid deep within her breast.
In all her quiet duties, one dear thought
Kept ever true and constant sway, not brought
Before the world, but garnered all the more
For being to herself a secret store.