Poems (Clark)/The Patchwork Quilt

by Annie Maria Lawrence Clark

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.