Visitor

Her little face is like a walnut

With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair

Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns;

And all about her clings an old, sweet smell.

Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl.

Well might her bonnets have been born on her.

Can you conceive a Fairy

The subject of a strong religious call?

In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs,

All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales,

Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray,

Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns:

A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom's way,

Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails.