She walked along without a song but one that sang inside her.
Her heels did ring, her arms did swing—bright-eyed, the world before her.
Each step a lift, each swing a gift, to he who turned to sight her.
That’s me; I see, and with pen free I tell my hands to write her.

“Oh, you’re the way to charm the day and make it rise within you;
To walk along without a song but only one that’s in you!”

But now she’s gone. Old man comes on; head bent, he walks so creaky.
He didn’t see what I did see or he would be more peaky.
Oh, but I have won my morning sun although the sky is graying,
For in my mind her arms are signed, and always will be swaying!