and the others scarcely look at her,
But crowding together, as if by plan,
Draw further and further from Sister Anne.
I try to rattle along in chat,
Talking freely of this and that—
The crops, the weather, the mother-land,
Talk a baby could understand;
And the faded roses, faint and meek,
Open their languid lips to speak,
But in various sharps and flats, all low,