‘Mistress, here is Phemie Blayne
Selling mushrooms once again;
Annie Logie came before
You had passed your chamber door,
So I filled the basket there—’

Mushrooms! Phemie Blayne! oh where?
With that I ran pell-mell down stair.
This was but trifling to restore
The interest of the day before,—
But there she stood,
Clothed in her beauty, plainly good.
Upon her auburn hair a hood,
Coarse perhaps, but white as milk,
Neater than the finest silk:
Tall and elastic, strong and free,
Like a blossoming apple-tree,
Earnest-eyed and womanly,
Yet little more than child to-day,
There stood she waiting patiently.

Phemie Blayne! I still can see
Thy queenhood, humbling then to me,
And wonder if thy destiny
Is good as God has been to thee.