Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/346

316 And in the morning I shall wake betimes

And start when all the birds begin to sing.

You wear your smart clothes on the pilgrimage,

Such pretty clothes as all the women here

Keep by them for their best: a velvet cap

And collar golden-broidered? They look well

On old and young alike.

.

Nay, I have none—

Never had better clothes than these you see.

Good clothes are pretty, but one sees them best

When others wear them, and I somehow thought

'T was not worth while. I had so many things

More than some neighbors, I was partly shy

Of wearing better clothes than they, and now

I am so old and custom is so strong

'T would hurt me sore to put on finery.

Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha.

Shake hands; good-by. The sun is going down,

And I must see the glory from the hill.

I stayed among those hills; and oft heard more

Of Agatha. I liked to hear her name,

As that of one half grandame and half saint,

Uttered with reverent playfulness. The lads

And younger men all called her mother, aunt,

Or granny, with their pet diminutives,

And bade their lasses and their brides behave

Right well to one who surely made a link

'Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both: