 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
LINES WRITTEN IN A PRAYER-BOOK
The last long knell of the tolling bell
Dies out of the belfry's pile,
And the rustling skirt and the crinoline's swell
Is gone from the echoing aisle,
And on saint and on sinner a silence fell,
Unbroken by whisper or smile.
Dies out of the belfry's pile,
And the rustling skirt and the crinoline's swell
Is gone from the echoing aisle,
And on saint and on sinner a silence fell,
Unbroken by whisper or smile.
I cannot pray, for my thoughts still stray
From my book, though I seem to con it;
She's not over there 'midst beauty's array,
For I know the style of her bonnet,
Just from Madame Chassez's, with its trimming so gay;
And the loveliest roses upon it.
From my book, though I seem to con it;
She's not over there 'midst beauty's array,
For I know the style of her bonnet,
Just from Madame Chassez's, with its trimming so gay;
And the loveliest roses upon it.
She comes! “She is like to the merchant ships,”
For she bringeth her silks “from afar”;
She comes! She is here! and my heart's at my lips,
And my nerves, how they tremble and jar!
For the flounces that catch in the pews and the slips,
Her way to salvation doth bar.
For she bringeth her silks “from afar”;
She comes! She is here! and my heart's at my lips,
And my nerves, how they tremble and jar!
For the flounces that catch in the pews and the slips,
Her way to salvation doth bar.
Oh, let not your judgment, ye saints, be severe,
Impute not the fault to her pride,
For when angels awhile on the earth reappear,
Their limits are not circumscribed;
And when woman extendeth the bounds of her sphere,
Her influence can't be too wide!
Impute not the fault to her pride,
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Their limits are not circumscribed;
And when woman extendeth the bounds of her sphere,
Her influence can't be too wide!
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |