She sitteth in the sunshine, old and grey,
Her faded kerchief crossed upon her breast,
Her withered form in sober colors dressed,
Her thoughts fixed ever on the Far-away;
She scarcely sees the children at their play,
But looks beyond them to the crimsoning West
And still beyond, where everlasting rest
Remains to close and crown her little day.
But on her tranquil and unconscious face,
In lines engraved by joy no less than tears,
The story of her pilgrimage we trace,
For Youth, quick-flying, left his dearer part,
And all the fragrance of the vanished years,
Imperishable, lies within her heart.