Rose, small housewife, mixing bread,
When they tell her shakes her head:
“Do you think I can forget
All the perils he has met,
And naught ever harmed him yet?”
And the neighbors say, “Poor child!”
Whispering, “Grief has made her wild.”
But at eve white sails behold!
Flashing up a path of gold,
Just as little Rose foretold.