(By Newark).

Is't White Clay creek white paper makes?
Or white hands of young Anna,
That take the pulp in snowy flakes,
As though she gathered manna?
Down flows its milk as to her breast,
The fountain's foam returning,
Or comes the dairy milk to rest
Where Anna sits a'churning.

Oft in my boyhood truanting,
Beneath the long bridge idling,
I saw her like a pigeon wing,
Her white flock guiding, bridling.
Unto her hand the pulp canal
Moved on from vats of vapor —
A cascade frothing from a dall
To calmest lakes of paper.

Sheet after sheet beneath her eyes
They come to rest as I do
When in the humming mill my sighs
Are hushed as by Queen Dido;
Her arm a sceptre waves her hands
Across the sheets as free as
That Queen dismissed on Carthange sands
The sails of fleet Aeneas.

We college lads our writing tasks
Compose on Anna's moulding,
And all our Latin barely masks
The poesy she's folding;
We come to watch her with heart still
Where she's the day adorning,
Folding within the paper mill
The white light of the morning.