Day by day she came and went among the settlers
With a noiseless step, with gentle courtesy
That soon won for her the friendship of her captors.
Children loved her, played with her among the flowers
Growing wild in woodland and in meadows;
And she wove them flower baskets of the rushes
By the shallow pools within the wide brown marshes.
Oftener she sat beside the open doorway
With her beadwork, and her skilful fingers plying
Deftly back and forth upon the wooden frame,
Fashioned wondrous patterns of the brightest colors
For the moccasins and dresses of the women.
It was thus that Rolfe, the English planter saw her,
And the picture of the maiden at her beadwork
Haunted long his memory as he sat alone
In the home bereft of woman's love and care.
Long he mused and sadly on his mournful fortunes
Since the fateful shipwreck on Bermuda's shore
That had left him lonely, left a gloomy shadow
On his New World home.
Then he broke the silence:
"Others who have loved and lost to grief consent not.
Rouse them from their sorrow unto nobler purpose.
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