Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/339

In agate; one would say, the life-long work
Of some great master. Twenty blessed springs
Have o'er her past. The soul of music shines
In her clear eyes like a celestial fire,
And her pure forehead bears the seal of heaven,
And in bright bands her brown and silken hair
Falls on her shoulders white and smooth as snow.

Like a fresh wind among the willow boughs,
Her fingers on the instrument mute till now
Modulate slowly a minuet air,
A soft air from 'Don Juan,' dreamy, sad,
Yet full of passion; the piano throbs
As if it were a living human soul!
And as at last in sobs the music bursts,
The father leaves his papers and his pen
To look at her, and the fond mother drops
Her needle, drops the dainty flower sketched out,
And leans across the table; she scarce breathes,
But silently looks on, like him entranced,
Until her glance meets his; then smiles break forth,
And both contemplate with wet eyes the pearl,
The richest pearl their jewel-casket holds,
The pride of all the family—the life,
The joy and sunshine of the house—their child.