Her little face is like a walnut shell <br />With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns <br />Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns; <br />And all about her clings an old, sweet smell. <br />Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl. <br />Well might her bonnets have been born on her. <br />Can you conceive a Fairy Godmother <br />The subject of a strong religious call? <br />In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs, <br />All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales, <br />Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray, <br />Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns: <br />A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom's way, <br />Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails.<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/visitor-8/
