And she must put such thoughts away before the sermon should begin.
But, sitting ’neath the preachèd Word,
Demurely in her father’s pew,
She thought about her bonnet still,—
Yes, all the parson’s sermon through,—
About its pretty bows and buds which better than the text she knew.
Yet sitting there with peaceful face,
The reflex of her simple soul,
She looked to be a very saint—
And maybe was one, on the whole—