She was a woman peerless in her station, 
With household virtues wedded to her name; 
Spotless in linen, grass-bleached in her fame; 
And pure and clear-starched in her conversation; 
Thence in my Castle of Imagination 
She dwells for evermore, the dainty dame, 
To keep all airy draperies from shame 
And all dream furnitures in preservation: 

There walketh she with keys quite silver bright, 
In perfect hose and shoes of seemly black, 
Apron and stomacher of lily white, 
And decent order follows in her track: 
The burnished plate grows lustrous in her sight, 
And polished floors and tables shine her back.