Upon thy brow was but to bless
And not to call thee from thy choice.
Depart in peace, wed and rejoice.”
Peter, the Little, of Attegat,
Clapped on his curls, his fuzzy hat,
And clasping the hand of his promised bride
He trudged back home with one at his side,
—No longer the self-vowed, mournful nun,
But laughing, black-eyed Zelia Dionne.