Peggy Mitchell
Joan Trimble
As lily grows up easily,
In modest, gentle, dignity
To sweet perfection,
So grew she,
As easily!
Or as the rose,
That takes no care,
Will open out, on sunny air
Bloom after bloom,
Fair after fair;
Just so did she
As carelessly!
She is our torment without end!
She is our enemy, our friend!
Our joy, our woe!
And she will send
Madness or glee,
To you or me,
And endlessly.