WATCHING THE WEDDING.
WHO can tell me where I'm going,
Tell a little maid like me,
With her fingers worn for sewing,
But her soul as full of glee
As of scented, blushing blossoms yonder twisted
apple-tree.
For perchance my life is twisted
Out of shape in so much thread;
I was never flrmly-wristed,
With a steady back and head,
And you taste so many stitches in a single loaf
of bread.
And by eve my arms grow tired,
Underneath their level stare,
Shaping folds to be admired
On these ladies, who are fair.
Would we look so white, I wonder, if we had
such silks to wear.
For to serve another's beauty
All the days when you are young,
And to do a mirror's duty,
With the ever-praising tongue ;
— Would you rather sing, red robin, or like
sometimes to be sung?
