Poems (Clark)/The Patchwork Quilt
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 dayI 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 greyWere 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 prizeWould seem to be utterly worthless If viewed through others' eyes.