Poems (Prescott)/Embroidery

by Mary Newmarch Prescott

EMBROIDERY

All the flowers are overblown.
All the grass is newly mown,—
Prithee, 'tis a pity quite
Thus to sit from morn till night,
With a heart in nowise light,
Thus to sit and draw my thread
Just to earn my daily bread!
Underneath my finger grows
Heartsease, starts the pale primrose,—
Ah, to them no wind that blows,
Summer rains, nor winter snows,
Any ruin can disclose.

While I traced these wilful vines,
Clematis and jessamines,
With the freakish wandering-jew,
And the gadding ivy, too.
While I draw my needle out,
Straight I lose what I'm about,
And the fields I used to know
All their feathery reaches show,
Blue-eyed grasses interspersed
With dandelions gone to seed,
Which I used to think at first
Knew if any one had need
Of the love that I could give,
Of the life that I could live.
But there can be none so poor,
Asking alms beside my door,
While I sit and shape my flowers
Through the lonesome lingering hours!

In those fields we strolled together,
He and I,—no matter whether
All the sky was overcast,
And the wailing autumn blast
Swept us like a ghost unguessed
While we walked among the blest,
In the world that has no name,
Till, presently between us came
A third,—ah me—I quite forget
Sometimes—Here waits my violet—
One, two,—its leaves already wet—
For now, that all the flowers are blown
I sit and sigh and weep alone!