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206 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle. Oh ! we weave a damask doublet for my lover's coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft, old-fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel. |
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GUESSES
I
KNOW a maiden ; she is dark and fair, With curved brows and eyes of hazel hue, And mouth, a marvel, delicately rare, Rich with expression, ever quaint yet new. O happy fancy ! there she, leaning, sits, One little palm against her temples pressed, And all her tresses winking like brown elves; The yellow fretted laurels toss in fits,
The great laburnums droop in swoons of rest, The blowing woodbines murmur to themselves.
What does she think of, as the daylight floats
Along the mignonetted window-sills, And flame-like, overhead, with ruffled throats,
The bright canaries twit their seeded bills ? What does she think of? Of the jasmine flower
That, like an odorous snowflake, opens slow, Or of the linnet on the topmost briar, Or of the cloud that, fringed with summer shower,
Floats up the river spaces, blue and low, And marged with lilies like a bank of fire ? |
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