 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
A LITTLE OLD GIRL.
What is this round world to Prudence,
With her round, black, restless eyes,
But a world for knitting stockings,
Sweeping floors, and baking pies?
With her round, black, restless eyes,
But a world for knitting stockings,
Sweeping floors, and baking pies?
'T is a world that women work in,
Sewing long seams, stitch by stitch;
Barns for hay, and chests for linen;
'T is a world where men grow rich.
Sewing long seams, stitch by stitch;
Barns for hay, and chests for linen;
'T is a world where men grow rich.
Ten years old is little Prudence;
Ten years older still she seems,
With her busy eyes and fingers,
With her grown-up thoughts and schemes.
Ten years older still she seems,
With her busy eyes and fingers,
With her grown-up thoughts and schemes.
Sunset is the time for candles;
Cows are milked at fall of dew,
Beans will grow, and melons ripen,
When the summer skies are blue.
Cows are milked at fall of dew,
Beans will grow, and melons ripen,
When the summer skies are blue.
Is there more than work in living?
Yes; a child must go to school,
And to meeting every Sunday;
Not a heathen be, or fool.
Yes; a child must go to school,
And to meeting every Sunday;
Not a heathen be, or fool.
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Something more has haunted Prudence
In the song of bird and bee,
In the low wind's dreamy whisper
Through the light-leaved poplar-tree.
In the song of bird and bee,
In the low wind's dreamy whisper
Through the light-leaved poplar-tree.
Something lingers, bends above her,
Leaning at the mossy well;
Some sweet murmur from the meadows,
On the air some gentle spell.
Leaning at the mossy well;
Some sweet murmur from the meadows,
On the air some gentle spell.
But she will not stop to listen:—
May be there are witches yet!
So she runs away from beauty,
Tries its presence to forget.
May be there are witches yet!
So she runs away from beauty,
Tries its presence to forget.
'T is the way her mother taught her;
Prudence is not much to blame.
Work is good for child or woman;
Childhood's jailer,—'t is a shame!
Prudence is not much to blame.
Work is good for child or woman;
Childhood's jailer,—'t is a shame!
Meanwhile at the romping children
Their grave heads the gossips shake;
Saying, with a smile for Prudence,
“What a good wife she will make!”
Their grave heads the gossips shake;
Saying, with a smile for Prudence,
“What a good wife she will make!”
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |