 | Poems |  |
THE DRESSMAKER'S THRUSH.
Oh, 'tis the brightest morning
Out in the laughing street,
That ever the round earth flash'd into,
The joy of May to meet!
Floods of more gleaming sunshine
Never the eye saw roll'd
Over pavement, and chimney, and cold grey spire
That turns in the light to gold;
And yet, as she wearily stitches,
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“O would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
Out in the laughing street,
That ever the round earth flash'd into,
The joy of May to meet!
Floods of more gleaming sunshine
Never the eye saw roll'd
Over pavement, and chimney, and cold grey spire
That turns in the light to gold;
And yet, as she wearily stitches,
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“O would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
Light of the new-born verdure!
Glory of jocund May!
What gladness is out in leafy lanes!
What joy in the fields, to-day!
What sunbursts are in the woodlands!
What blossoms the orchards throng!
The meadows are snow'd with daisy stars!
And the winds are thrill'd with song;
And yet, as ever she stitches,
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
Glory of jocund May!
What gladness is out in leafy lanes!
What joy in the fields, to-day!
What sunbursts are in the woodlands!
What blossoms the orchards throng!
The meadows are snow'd with daisy stars!
And the winds are thrill'd with song;
259
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
Close is the court and darken'd,
On which her bare room looks,
Whose only wealth is its wall's one print,
And its mantel's few old books;
Her spare cold bed in the corner,
Her single, worn, worn chair,
And the grate that looks so rusty and dull,
As never a fire were there;
And there, as she stitches and stitches,
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
On which her bare room looks,
Whose only wealth is its wall's one print,
And its mantel's few old books;
Her spare cold bed in the corner,
Her single, worn, worn chair,
And the grate that looks so rusty and dull,
As never a fire were there;
And there, as she stitches and stitches,
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
Out, is the gleaming sunshine;
Out, is the golden air;
In, scarce a gleam of the bright May sun
Can, dull'd and dim, reach there;
In darkness close and foul to be breathed,
That blanches her cheek to white,
Her rounded features sharpen and thin,
And dulls her once keen sight;
And there, as she stitches and stitches,
She and her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
Out, is the golden air;
In, scarce a gleam of the bright May sun
Can, dull'd and dim, reach there;
In darkness close and foul to be breathed,
That blanches her cheek to white,
Her rounded features sharpen and thin,
And dulls her once keen sight;
And there, as she stitches and stitches,
She and her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
Days that are clouded and dull,
Winter—though winter bring
Cold keen frost to her fireless room—
Are dearer to her than Spring;
For then, on her weary sewing,
Less often her worst thoughts come,
Of the pleasant lanes, and the country air,
And the field-paths trod by some.
And so, as she wearily stitches,
She and her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
Winter—though winter bring
Cold keen frost to her fireless room—
Are dearer to her than Spring;
For then, on her weary sewing,
Less often her worst thoughts come,
Of the pleasant lanes, and the country air,
And the field-paths trod by some.
260
She and her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”
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