The Quaker Loves An Ample

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

Such A Blush In The Midst Of Brown Was Born, Like Red Poppies Grown With Corn.

And Ye, Who Have Met With Adversity's Blast, And Been Bow'd To The Earth By Its Fury; To Whom The Twelve Months, That Have Recently Pass'd Were As Harsh As A Prejudiced Jury - Still, Fill To The Future! And Join In Our Chime, The Regrets Of Remembrance To Cozen, And Having Obtained A New Trial Of Time, Shout In Hopes Of A Kindlier Dozen.

The Lily Is All In White, Like A Saint, And So Is No Mate For Me.

Experience Enables Me To Depose To The Comfort And Blessing That Literature Can Prove In Seasons Of Sickness And Sorrow.