KATHLEEN'S CHARITY
“God bless the work,” said young Kathleen,
She bent her golden head,
And in her cheek that was so pale
The blood crept rosy red.
Quick flew the humming spinning-wheel,
The thread was all but done,
And like the pale shafts of a star
The gleaming strands she spun.
“And when the cloth is mine”—she smiled.
The wheel sang soft and low—
“I'll make a robe all straight and white,
That I a bride may go.”
“The world is good,” she said, and laughed,
A-turning of her wheel.
Then by her stood a beggar maid,
Who prayed with faint appeal.
“I have not gold,” sighed sweet Kathleen,
“Nor silver you to give.
Yet if you go so pale and wan
I fear you scarce can live.”
“So take my thread, 'twill weave a gown
To keep you from the cold.”
The beggar kissed the giving hand.
And blessed a hundred-fold.
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