There lived a simple country maid
Years and years ago;
In summer 'mid the flowers she played,
In winter 'mid the snow,
And every one that saw her said, with little sigh or shake of head:
" How homely she will grow! "

I saw her in her sweetest 'teen,
As shy as any dove,
And in her eyes a tender sheen
Caught from the light above.
" This little maid grows fair, " I thought; " I know what all this change has wrought —
It is the grace of love. "

A year sped round, and I once more
Within her presence stood.
Fairer she seemed than e'er before,
Stately and brave and good.
And when I looked I said, " I know that grace which now hath changed you so —
The grace of motherhood. "

When next I saw her, at the change
I gazed with bated breath.
Her face was white and rare and strange,
Like one's who slumbereth,
Dreaming of things unsaid, unsung as yet by any mortal tongue —
That was the grace of death!