Every Sunday there's a throng Of pretty girls, who trot along In a pious, breathless state (They are nearly always late) To the Chapel, where they pray For the sins of Saturday. They have frocks of white and blue, Yellow sashes they have too, And red ribbons show each head Tenderly is ringleted; And the bell rings loud, and the Railway whistles urgently. After Chapel they will go, Walking delicately slow, Telling still how Father John Is so good to look upon, And such other grave affairs As they thought of during prayers. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MINUET OF MOZART'S by SARA TEASDALE DUSK IN WAR TIME by SARA TEASDALE A HILLSIDE THAW by ROBERT FROST THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS by GEORGE AUGUSTUS BAKER JR. THE CHARGE AT SANTIAGO by WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE MOON AND VENUS by ABUL MUGHIRA |