Yonder she sits beside the tranquil Dee,
Kindly yet cold, respectable and wise,
Sharp-tongued though civil, with wide-open eyes,
Dreaming of hills, yet urgent for the sea;
And still and on, she has her vanity,
Wears her grey mantle with a certain grace,
While sometimes there are roses on her face
To sweeten too austere simplicity.
She never taught her children fairy-lore,
Yet they must go a-seeking crocks of gold
Afar throughout the earth;
And when their treasure in her lap they pour,
Her hands upon her knee do primly fold;
She smiles complacent that she gave them birth.