THE PATCHWORK QUILT
'Tis only a calico bedquilt
Draping a lowly bed;
But oh! the mem'ries are treasures
That hallow that patchwork spread.
Its squares were wrought into beauty
By fingers now at rest—
There are many finer coverings,
But I love this one the best.
Draping a lowly bed;
But oh! the mem'ries are treasures
That hallow that patchwork spread.
Its squares were wrought into beauty
By fingers now at rest—
There are many finer coverings,
But I love this one the best.
Here are scraps and remnants of dresses
Once worn by the loved and gone;
Whose raiment now is spotless,
In the land of eternal morn.
Every square is bright with a picture
That my eyes can only see;
What you would call plain and faded
Is wondrous fair to me.
Once worn by the loved and gone;
Whose raiment now is spotless,
In the land of eternal morn.
Every square is bright with a picture
That my eyes can only see;
What you would call plain and faded
Is wondrous fair to me.
That scrap of blue in the corner,—
Ah! don't you remember the day
I wore that dress, when first me met
One morn in a bygone May?
The dress I can wear no longer,
But that day is never forgot,—
'Twas strange our meeting and parting,
Should so brighten and sadden my lot.
Ah! don't you remember the day
I wore that dress, when first me met
One morn in a bygone May?
The dress I can wear no longer,
But that day is never forgot,—
'Twas strange our meeting and parting,
Should so brighten and sadden my lot.
That buff was little Charlie's,
And the pink and white and grey
Were Alice's, ere her last farewell
Rent part of my life away.
And this brown with snowy blossoms
Was Aunt Ruth's Sunday best,—
Dear heart, she grew so weary
She was glad to seek her rest.
And the pink and white and grey
Were Alice's, ere her last farewell
Rent part of my life away.
And this brown with snowy blossoms
Was Aunt Ruth's Sunday best,—
Dear heart, she grew so weary
She was glad to seek her rest.
There is so much I might tell you
Of beauty that you cannot see,
For after all 'tis the love of the loved
That gives it its worth to me.
For love is a great enricher,
And treasures we highest prize
Would seem to be utterly worthless
If viewed through others' eyes.
Of beauty that you cannot see,
For after all 'tis the love of the loved
That gives it its worth to me.
For love is a great enricher,
And treasures we highest prize
Would seem to be utterly worthless
If viewed through others' eyes.