4606805Poems — BlancheSophia May Eckley

MISCELLANEOUS.



BLANCHE.
  LANCHE sate by her open casement,
   Humming an air as she spinn'd;
  Ever and oft the burden came,
   Borne on the Summer's wind.

'Twas an olden ditty she sang,
She had caught from lips long dead—
Lips now attuned to other songs—
"To other songs," she said.

Round and round her spinning-wheel flew,
Swiftly the long silken thread
Dropped from her ivory fingers—
"An endless task!" she said.

The sun swooned away on the mountains,
Painting the valley in red,
In orange and purple the vineyards—
"An endless day!" she said.

The moon and stars they glimmered,
As the twilight shadows fled;
She leans from her open casement—
"God only is Love!" she said.

An angel in secret is weaving
A death-shroud with mystical thread,
Uniting the half finished meshes—
"God only is Rest!" he said.

"Now wipe the tears from thy cheek, Blanche!
Believe that thy lover is dead;
For faithless from thee he has wandered"—
"God only is true!" she said.

"Twas night, and the angel was bending
Over Blanche as she lay on her bed:
He whispered, Her spinning is ended—
"God only is Life!" he said.