The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 1.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[323] 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.