 | Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr |  |
6
MAUD AND MADGE
Maud in a crimson velvet chair
Strings her pearls on a silken thread,
While, lovingly lifting her golden hair,
Soft airs wander about her head.
She has silken robes of the softest flow,
She has jewels rare and a chain of gold,
And her two white hands flit to and fro,
Fair as the dainty toys they hold.
Strings her pearls on a silken thread,
While, lovingly lifting her golden hair,
Soft airs wander about her head.
She has silken robes of the softest flow,
She has jewels rare and a chain of gold,
And her two white hands flit to and fro,
Fair as the dainty toys they hold.
She has tropical birds and rare perfumes;
Pictures that speak to the heart and eye;
For her each flower of the Orient blooms,—
For her the song and the lute swell high;
But daintily stringing her gleaming pearls
She dreams to-day in her velvet chair,
While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls,
Lightly stirred by the odorous air.
Pictures that speak to the heart and eye;
For her each flower of the Orient blooms,—
For her the song and the lute swell high;
But daintily stringing her gleaming pearls
She dreams to-day in her velvet chair,
While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls,
Lightly stirred by the odorous air.
Down on the beach, when the tide goes out,
Madge is gathering shining shells;
The sea-breeze blows her locks about;
O'er bare, brown feet the white sand swells.
Coarsest serge is her gown of gray,
Faded and torn her apron blue,
And there in the beautiful, dying day
The girl still thinks of the work to do.
Madge is gathering shining shells;
The sea-breeze blows her locks about;
O'er bare, brown feet the white sand swells.
Coarsest serge is her gown of gray,
Faded and torn her apron blue,
And there in the beautiful, dying day
The girl still thinks of the work to do.
7
Stains of labor are on her hands,
Lost is the young form's airy grace;
And standing there on the shining sands
You read her fate in her weary face.
Up with the dawn to toil all day
For meagre fare and a place to sleep;
Seldom a moment to dream or play,
Little leisure to laugh or weep.
Lost is the young form's airy grace;
And standing there on the shining sands
You read her fate in her weary face.
Up with the dawn to toil all day
For meagre fare and a place to sleep;
Seldom a moment to dream or play,
Little leisure to laugh or weep.
Beautiful Maud, you think, maybe,
Lying back in your velvet chair,
There is naught in common with her and thee,—
You scarce could breathe in the self-same air.
But the warm blood in her girlish heart
Leaps quick as yours at her nature's call,
And ye, though moving so far apart,
Must share one destiny after all.
Lying back in your velvet chair,
There is naught in common with her and thee,—
You scarce could breathe in the self-same air.
But the warm blood in her girlish heart
Leaps quick as yours at her nature's call,
And ye, though moving so far apart,
Must share one destiny after all.
Love shall come to you both one day,
For still must be what aye hath been;
And under satin or russet gray
Hearts will open to let him in.
Motherhood with its joy and woe
Each must compass through burning pain,—
You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow,
Madge with her brown hands labor-stained.
For still must be what aye hath been;
And under satin or russet gray
Hearts will open to let him in.
Motherhood with its joy and woe
Each must compass through burning pain,—
You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow,
Madge with her brown hands labor-stained.
Each shall sorrow and each shall weep,
Though one is in hovel, one in hall;
Over your gold the frost shall creep,
As over her jet the snows will fall.
Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyes
At Madge out yonder under the sun;
Yet know ye both by the countless ties
Of a common womanhood ye are one!
Though one is in hovel, one in hall;
Over your gold the frost shall creep,
As over her jet the snows will fall.
Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyes
At Madge out yonder under the sun;
Yet know ye both by the countless ties
Of a common womanhood ye are one!
| Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr | |