 | Birds, Bees and Blossoms |  |
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THE POOR SEMPSTRESS.
Stop, poor sempstress, stop and dream;
Forget thy room so close and dark,
Think of that cottage by the stream
Where thou wert wakened by the lark;
Think of the ringdoves in the woods,
The roses round the window bowing,
The velvet green of spring's first buds,
All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Forget thy room so close and dark,
Think of that cottage by the stream
Where thou wert wakened by the lark;
Think of the ringdoves in the woods,
The roses round the window bowing,
The velvet green of spring's first buds,
All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
I see the tears upon thy cheek,
I know thou'st had thy share of sorrow;
I picture thee a maiden meek,
Blithe as a bird that hailed the morrow:
I know that sweet spring-sound doth cheat
Thee of the grief thine eyes are showing;
That fancy has fled from this street,
To “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
I know thou'st had thy share of sorrow;
I picture thee a maiden meek,
Blithe as a bird that hailed the morrow:
I know that sweet spring-sound doth cheat
Thee of the grief thine eyes are showing;
That fancy has fled from this street,
To “All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
In the attic's crazy story,
That looks down on a dead brick wall,
The sunshine comes in all its glory,
And on the broken floor does fall:
That and the sky are all she sees
Of God's great works above her bowing;
Stitching—she dreams of flowers and trees,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
That looks down on a dead brick wall,
The sunshine comes in all its glory,
And on the broken floor does fall:
That and the sky are all she sees
Of God's great works above her bowing;
Stitching—she dreams of flowers and trees,
“All-a-blowing, all-a-growing.”
Stitching, she listens to that sound,
Fancies she sees that hazel glade
With its primrose-covered ground,
That quite a little sun land made.
Stitching, she wanders there again,
And oft her head keeps backward throwing,
To ease that old cramped stooping pain—
Stitches, and dreams of “All-a-blowing.”
Fancies she sees that hazel glade
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That quite a little sun land made.
Stitching, she wanders there again,
And oft her head keeps backward throwing,
To ease that old cramped stooping pain—
Stitches, and dreams of “All-a-blowing.”
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