And the banners borne were a motley many;
And watching the gray column wind and drag
Was a slip of a girl—we’ll call her Jenny.
A slip of a girl—what needs her name?—
With her cheeks aflame and her lips aquiver,
As she leaned and looked with a loyal shame
At the steady flow of the steely river:
Till a storm grew black in the hasel eyes
Time had not tamed, nor a lover sighed for;
And she ran and she girded her, apron-wise,