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.
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.
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.
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.
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