When in at the doorway had entered serene
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.
Tradition relates of it wonderful tales.
Its handle of leather was buff.
Though shorn of its glory, e’en now it exhales
An odor of hymn-books and snuff.
Its primeval grace, if you like, you can trace:
’Twas limned for the future to scan,
Just under a smiling gold-spectacled face,
My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.