 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
7
THREADING THE NEEDLE.
She was threading her needle, by the light
Of an angry setting sun,
And the cotton would not travel right,
But in false directions run;
While it twisted here and twisted there,
Though it always just shot bye,
And it sent a message everywhere,
Except through the narrow eye;
For her hand was moving now too fast,
And again it moved too slow
And her patience could not a moment last,
If a tangle chanced to grow;
And her flngers trembled, as they toiled
At their little lowly task,
As if serpent somewhere hidden coiled,
Just behind the cotton mask;
As if graver meaning deeper lay,
In the humble work she had,
And her heart as well had gone astray,
That she weary looked and sad;
But the sun sank lower round and red,
And foreboded nought save ill,
Like a warrior laid on his bloody bed,
And she threaded the needle still.
Of an angry setting sun,
And the cotton would not travel right,
But in false directions run;
While it twisted here and twisted there,
Though it always just shot bye,
And it sent a message everywhere,
Except through the narrow eye;
For her hand was moving now too fast,
And again it moved too slow
And her patience could not a moment last,
If a tangle chanced to grow;
And her flngers trembled, as they toiled
At their little lowly task,
As if serpent somewhere hidden coiled,
Just behind the cotton mask;
As if graver meaning deeper lay,
In the humble work she had,
And her heart as well had gone astray,
That she weary looked and sad;
But the sun sank lower round and red,
And foreboded nought save ill,
Like a warrior laid on his bloody bed,
And she threaded the needle still.
She was threading her needle, while the clock
Chimed out in the silence “Four,”
And she looked as if listening for a knock,
With a footstep at the door;
And the cat lay blinking by the hearth,
Where the feeble fire burnt blue,
In the frost that had fettered all the earth,
And it gave a ghastly hue;
And a solitary picture hung,
On the bare and yellow wall,
In the fitful draught it rose and swung
As though answering to a call;
And a tiny table, with three legs,
Held the homely evening fare
Of a loaf, some butter, and two eggs,
That another well might share;
And no carpet decked the naked boards,
With their crazy, creaking deal,
That had gathered stains in grievous hoards,
Which they cared not to conceal;
And the light turned lovelier in the sky
With a crimson glow and thrill,
Ere it spread its beauteous wings to fly,
And she threaded the needle still.
Chimed out in the silence “Four,”
And she looked as if listening for a knock,
With a footstep at the door;
And the cat lay blinking by the hearth,
Where the feeble fire burnt blue,
In the frost that had fettered all the earth,
And it gave a ghastly hue;
And a solitary picture hung,
On the bare and yellow wall,
In the fitful draught it rose and swung
As though answering to a call;
And a tiny table, with three legs,
Held the homely evening fare
Of a loaf, some butter, and two eggs,
That another well might share;
And no carpet decked the naked boards,
With their crazy, creaking deal,
That had gathered stains in grievous hoards,
Which they cared not to conceal;
And the light turned lovelier in the sky
With a crimson glow and thrill,
Ere it spread its beauteous wings to fly,
And she threaded the needle still.
8
She was threading her needle, and the gust
Outside made a moaning sound.
Like a voice of sorrow from the dust,
That relief has nowhere found;
In the twilight twinkled dim the gas,
And a ghostly glimmer threw
On the window with its cracking glass,
And the sill where the lichen grew;
And the children babbled at their play,
With their ragged clothing girt,
As if formed anew from muddy clay,
In the gutter and the dirt;
And the feet which paced with heavy tramp,
At their grinding labour's bid,
On her heart that fluttered seemed to stamp,
And her idle efforts chid;
And the women lifted shriller tones,
As they hurried wrangling past,
And the history written on the stones.
Had the bravest left aghast;
And the frost waxed sharper, and the cold
Crept on with its icy chill,
Till their work her hands could scarce uphold,
And she threaded the needle still.
Outside made a moaning sound.
Like a voice of sorrow from the dust,
That relief has nowhere found;
In the twilight twinkled dim the gas,
And a ghostly glimmer threw
On the window with its cracking glass,
And the sill where the lichen grew;
And the children babbled at their play,
With their ragged clothing girt,
As if formed anew from muddy clay,
In the gutter and the dirt;
And the feet which paced with heavy tramp,
At their grinding labour's bid,
On her heart that fluttered seemed to stamp,
And her idle efforts chid;
And the women lifted shriller tones,
As they hurried wrangling past,
And the history written on the stones.
Had the bravest left aghast;
And the frost waxed sharper, and the cold
Crept on with its icy chill,
Till their work her hands could scarce uphold,
And she threaded the needle still.
She was threading her needle, and the thought
Of the sin that kept drawing nigh,
In her troubled bosom chafed, and wrought
The remorse of a bitter sigh;
And her fingers bungled at the task,
That they only helped to spoil,
While accusing whispers woke, to ask
If the soul had gathered soil;
Should she sell her honour, for an hour
Of illicit joy or gain,
That would turn her life's young kindness sour,
And the virgin beauty stain?
And the step that now with false comfort came,
To her dark and dreary strife—
Was it bringing blessing, or a shame
That wonld shadow all her life?
And her childhood's prayer, long years unsaid,
For the tempted and the poor,
Bubbled up in the bosom sore afraid,
And she locked the traitorous door;
Then the sun went down with a glorious blaze,
But the home within had light,
While she broke from the grim, entangling maze,
And the needle was threaded right.
Of the sin that kept drawing nigh,
In her troubled bosom chafed, and wrought
The remorse of a bitter sigh;
And her fingers bungled at the task,
That they only helped to spoil,
While accusing whispers woke, to ask
If the soul had gathered soil;
Should she sell her honour, for an hour
Of illicit joy or gain,
That would turn her life's young kindness sour,
And the virgin beauty stain?
And the step that now with false comfort came,
To her dark and dreary strife—
Was it bringing blessing, or a shame
That wonld shadow all her life?
And her childhood's prayer, long years unsaid,
For the tempted and the poor,
Bubbled up in the bosom sore afraid,
And she locked the traitorous door;
Then the sun went down with a glorious blaze,
But the home within had light,
While she broke from the grim, entangling maze,
And the needle was threaded right.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |