One long bar Of purple cloud, on which the evening star Shone like a jewel on a scimitar, Held the sky's golden gateway.

Through the deep Hush of the woods a murmur seemed to creep, The Schuylkill whispering in a voice of sleep.
All else was still.

The oxen from their ploughs Rested at last, and from their long day's browse Came the dun files of Krisheim's home-bound cows.
And the young city, round whose virgin zone The rivers like two mighty arms were thrown, Marked by the smoke of evening fires alone, Lay in the distance, lovely even then With its fair women and its stately men Gracing the forest court of William Penn, Urban yet sylvan; in its rough-hewn frames Of oak and pine the dryads held their claims, And lent its streets their pleasant woodland names.
Anna Pastorius down the leafy lane Looked city-ward, then stooped to prune again Her vines and simples, with a sigh of pain.
For fast the streaks of ruddy sunset paled In the oak clearing, and, as daylight failed, Slow, overhead, the dusky night-birds sailed.
Again she looked: between green walls of shade, With low-bent head as if with sorrow weighed, Daniel Pastorius slowly came and said, "God's peace be with thee, Anna!" Then he stood Silent before her, wrestling with the mood Of one who sees the evil and not good.
"What is it, my Pastorius ?" As she spoke, A slow, faint smile across his features broke, Sadder than tears.

"Dear heart," he said, "our folk "Are even as others.

Yea, our goodliest Friends Are frail; our elders have their selfish ends, And few dare trust the Lord to make amends "For duty's loss.