Her eyes be like the violets, <br /> Ablow in Sudbury lane; <br />When she doth smile, her face is sweet <br /> As blossoms after rain; <br />With grief I think of my gray hairs, <br /> And wish me young again. <br /> <br />In comes she through the dark old door <br /> Upon this Sabbath day; <br />And she doth bring the tender wind <br /> That sings in bush and tree; <br />And hints of all the apple boughs <br /> That kissed her by the way. <br /> <br />Our parson stands up straight and tall, <br /> For our dear souls to pray, <br />And of the place where sinners go <br /> Some grewsome things doth say: <br />Now, she is highest Heaven to me; <br /> So Hell is far away. <br /> <br />Most stiff and still the good folk sit <br /> To hear the sermon through; <br />But if our God be such a God, <br /> And if these things be true, <br />Why did He make her then so fair, <br /> And both her eyes so blue? <br /> <br />A flickering light, the sun creeps in, <br /> And finds her sitting there; <br />And touches soft her lilac gown, <br /> And soft her yellow hair; <br />I look across to that old pew, <br /> And have both praise and prayer. <br /> <br />Oh, violets in Sudbury lane, <br /> Amid the grasses green, <br />This maid who stirs ye with her feet <br /> Is far more fair, I ween! <br />I wonder how my forty years <br /> Look by her sweet sixteen!<br /><br />Lizette Woodworth Reese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anne-4/
