They lift their faces to the light,
And aye they are a gallant band;
The queen of all is snowy white-
A stately thing, and tall and grand.

See, close beside, in yellow drest,
Is the prince consort of the hour;
A bit of God's own sunshine prest
Into a glorious golden flower!

And mark the courtiers' noble grace-
Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine-
Their satin doublets slashed with lace,
Their velvet cloaks as red as wine.

Each maid-in-waiting is most fair-
Note well the graces she unfurls-
The winds have tossed her fluffy hair,
And left it in a thousand curls.

And yonder quaint, old-fashioned one,
Arrayed in palest lavender,
Ah! few there are, when all is done,
In beauty can compare with her.

The pink-I've seen at eventide
A something very like to this,
A cloud adrift upon the sky,
All rosy from the sun's last kiss.

Without the court, the chill and gloom
Of autumn twilight o'er the land;
Within, the grandeur and the bloom
Of queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.

More verses by Jean Blewett