THE BEAD BAG
Now, on the canvas doth she stitch with care
Each glinting bead, some opal-shot, some rayed
With faint star-gold, with ivory inlaid,
And some are touched with scarlet poignant, rare
As when in June the great poinsettias flare
Against her garden wall. And some indeed,
Dusk-hued as fuchsia-bells. And thus, a bead
Of light she sews in every minute square.
Nor can I tell what pattern's in her mind—
Of flower-plot bird-haunted, or the sheer,
Moon-frosted mountain-peaks, or tranquil stream
With lilies rimmed—but of my life designed
On coarse and flimsy fabric, she my dear,
Fills every moment with the jewels of dream.
Each glinting bead, some opal-shot, some rayed
With faint star-gold, with ivory inlaid,
And some are touched with scarlet poignant, rare
As when in June the great poinsettias flare
Against her garden wall. And some indeed,
Dusk-hued as fuchsia-bells. And thus, a bead
Of light she sews in every minute square.
Nor can I tell what pattern's in her mind—
Of flower-plot bird-haunted, or the sheer,
Moon-frosted mountain-peaks, or tranquil stream
With lilies rimmed—but of my life designed
On coarse and flimsy fabric, she my dear,
Fills every moment with the jewels of dream.