Demurely mute as Marion sits
And dreams, or reads, or draws, or knits,
One might suppose her merely fair,
But one who knows esteems her share
Of wisdom, and her wealth of wits.

For Marion wears the mood that fits,
And when the merry moment flits
Returns to some still sweeter air
Demurely mute.

If that might be which love permits —
A new dream comes, an old dream quits —
One might forget a buried care
And Marion hear the new love swear
The old dead vows — love's favourites —
Demurely mute.